


The scattered Pieces of Me

by etoile_etiolee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 69,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etoile_etiolee/pseuds/etoile_etiolee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPN AU from episode 120: Salvation. What if Sam had killed Yellow Eye Demon that night in Rosie's room? As it turns out, it doesn't prevent John Winchester's death. As Dean struggles to come to term with the loss, he comes across a demon seeking revenge that will leave him struggling for his life. Sam will need to come to terms with maybe never getting his brother back the way he was. Dean is comatose and, when he finally wakes up, the brain damages are severe. Sam will have to step up and become the caretaker for once.<br/>PG 13 for language. This story contains triggers: graphic description of illness and long term consequences of brain damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the fabulous disneymagics and firesign10 Thanks a bunch, girls!
> 
> Disclaimer: Not profits are made with this story. SPN and its characters don't belong to me.

(Important note: This story is AU from the end of season one, episode 20: Salvation. For those of you who haven’t seen it for a long time, it is the episode where John, Sam and Dean first try to kill the Yellow Eyed Demon. While John is off meeting Meg to give her the (false) Colt, Sam and Dean wait outside Rosie’s house. Rosie is Monica’s daughter and she’s turned six months old this day. When Yellow Eyes appears in the room, Sam finds himself facing the demon alone. Dean is downstairs fighting the baby’s father and Monica is already trapped against the wall in her daughter’s nursery. Sam hesitates for a moment and when he shoots, it’s too late, the Demon has disappeared. In my version of the events, Sam does not hesitate before he fires the Colt at the Demon.)  
______

Chapter 1

_Salvation, Iowa_

It is here.

The thing that killed mom. The demon. His yellow eyes flash.

The baby is crying in her crib, like Sam himself must have done in his nursery, so many years ago.

Sam aims.

A voice. Estranged to him. A deep, logical, almost cold voice says, “Don’t hesitate.”

Sam Winchester doesn't hesitate. He puts a bullet from the Colt right between the demon’s eyes as he thinks of the mother he never got to know and the girlfriend who was taken away from him.

Fire bursts over Rosie’s bed. She cries loudly. Her mother is screaming from the floor, tangled in her white nightgown. 

Dean runs into the room, the sound of his boots unmistakable on the wooden floor.

The demon twists and flashes as an incredible amount of energy is released around him. The fire dies as one last lightning strike passes through Yellow Eyes’ body and he collapses on the floor, his eyes a normal shade of brown, lifeless.

Monica takes Rosie in her arms while Dean screams at her to get out of there, to go somewhere safe.

Sam is still holding the gun. His arms are locked in a shooter's stance, his muscles so tense they’re shaking. Dean’s hand on his shoulder is a shock and his whole body shudders.

“He’s dead,” Sam chokes. 

“I know, Sammy. I know. You did good. Come on, we gotta wrap this fucker up and go help Dad.”

Dean’s voice is soothing. Which is strange, coming from him. He takes the gun out of Sam’s hands, unlocking the fingers one by one.

“It’s over,” Sam says. He can’t believe it, not really.

“Not yet. We gotta get to dad.” Dean rips the curtains from their pole and Sam stands there, wondering what the hell he's doing until his brother starts wrapping the demon’s corpse in them.

The curtain makes a poor shroud. Dean curses, tries to hide the body the best he can, mumbling between swears.

“You son of a bitch,” he snaps when he finds himself within inches of the demon's bloody face. “It’s over. You won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

That’s what makes Sam snap out of his trance. The hint of desperation in Dean’s voice, the enormity of what’s going on just behind his eyes.

“Let me help,” he says as his body finally gets with the program.

“Yeah. Come on, Sammy.”

Within minutes, the demon’s corpse is shoved in the Impala’s trunk. It's a tight fit, but they don’t exactly have to be careful. 

Rosie’s family is standing on the porch, the three of them shocked, but unhurt. They stare at each other for a long, silent second.

“We can’t stay here,” Dean finally tells Sam, patting him on the back.

He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car, the familiar rumble of the engine soothing something in Sam’s confused, over-sensitive mind. He follows Dean’s lead, his body heavy, exhausted even.

 _It’s over_ , Sam keeps thinking.

But it’s not.

::: :::

Deep in the woods, on a makeshift bonfire, the corpse of the Yellow Eyed Demon is burning, the salt they'd practically buried him in making the fire pop with a thousand small sparks in a way that seems somewhat joyful.

Dean is on the phone, trying to get in touch with Dad. He’s getting more nervous by the minute. They've lost so much time, stopping to burn the demon, but they couldn’t just keep on driving with the corpse of a supernatural creature wrapped up in curtains hidden in the trunk. Dean had wanted to wait for John because he'd felt it was something the three of them should do together, but Sam had been adamant. They don’t know a lot about demons, not enough to be certain of anything. Even dead, the creature has to be destroyed, the faster the better.

As the flames rise in the dark night, Sam feels cold and close to tears, strangely detached, although not in a bad way.

“He should’ve answered by now,” Dean repeats for the tenth time in less than half an hour. “You think she knows? Meg? Think she can sense it somehow because damn it, Sam, if Dad is…”

“Dean. Dad knows what he’s doing. You spent your whole life telling me that.”

They can’t leave yet, not before they’re sure the body is well on its way to nothing but ashes and that they haven't set the woods on fire in the process. Time suddenly stretches and, in Sam’s mind, he shoots the demon again and again. He sits heavily on a tree stump and looks at the fire, a haze settling over him.

“What? Who’s… Meg?”

Dean’s voice breaks the spell he’s trapped in. The mention of Meg’s name makes him shiver and Sam stands up to try and understand what’s going on. Dean’s eyes look huge in the light of the fire, shadows of fear dancing on his pale face. He takes the phone away from his ear, looks at it like it’s some kind of alien device. His thumb slide uneasily on the buttons before he activates the speaker.

“…Right here with me, I got him, do you understand me, Dean?” Meg spits her voice tiny but still, the rage in it is unmistakable. 

“Dad?” Sam asks, feeling like he’s five years old all over again.

“He won’t talk, he can’t, Sam.”

“You bitch you let him go right now,” Dean growls. “You let him go!”

Meg laughs. “Your precious father’s gonna die, Dean.”

“No! You’re a liar, you demonic bitch. I bet he’s not even with you.” It’s a plea from Dean, to whom, Sam has no idea.

“You fucking killed him! Why should I spare John? Do you think I’m afraid of having blood on my hands, you pathetic moron? He… he was supposed to lead us all, he was supposed to bring about the rise of the Fallen One and you fucking-“

“I wanna talk to him, let me talk to him,” Dean yells over the demon’s voice. 

“You wanna hear daddy? Well let’s hear him, shall we. You boys are gonna hear everything I do to him until all that’s left is a mound of torn flesh and broken bones.

The horror of Meg’s words swells in Sam’s throat. He can see how badly Dean’s hands are shaking, can see that his older brother believes everything the demon is saying.

There's a muffled noise, then…

“Dean, Sammy, I’m proud of you, don’t you ever-“

John’s voice, agonized but still strong and proud. 

“Enough,” Meg cuts him off just as Dean asks, “Dad?”

Then John starts screaming.

::: :::

When they get to the warehouse, it’s too late, just as they'd known it would be. There's no demon in sight, everything is silent and the sun is rising through the stained windows.

The smell of blood fills the air. They see their father lying on the ground as soon as they get inside. Dean starts running, calling John’s name, like he still hopes, even after the screams of agony they'd heard, that John had somehow survived.

When Sam gets there, his brother has taken off his leather jacket and is kneeling in front of their father’s body, or what’s left of him anyway. 

Dean’s head is bent, his hands closed into shaking fists. He doesn’t say a word. Sam knows he’s crying.

He looks at John’s torn up face. One eye is missing and part of his jaw. It’s obscene, seeing John Winchester, almighty hunter, reduced to a mound of flesh.

Dean covers their father’s upper body with his leather jacket. 

Sam steps back on shaky legs, falls on his knees and vomits on the dirty floor.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author’s note: Please keep in mind, reading this chapter, that the events of episode 122: Devil’s trap, never happened. Whatever Sam and Dean have to learn about demons and possession, they have to do it otherwise, and they know very little at this point._

Chapter 2

_Sioux Falls, July 28_

Sam gets downstairs a little past nine in the morning. He finds Bobby in the kitchen, reading an old book with thin yellowish pages, half a cup of coffee next to him.

Sam goes straight for the coffee pot and fills a mug. He clears his throat.

“Where’s Dean?”

“Where do you think? Outside, working on an old mustang.”

“F’course.”

It’s been one week since John died, one week since Sam and Dean brought his remains here, to Bobby’s, to burn them. 

The first three days, Sam had cried himself to sleep like a big baby. He misses John with every fiber of his being, is filled with regrets and unresolved issues. All the certainty he'd ever had about his goals, his dreams, is shattered now in his sorrow.

Dean has been quiet.

He doesn’t talk except when he has to. _Pass me the salt. I’m off to bed. Where are the jumper cables, Bobby_? That’s about it.

Sam doesn’t like it. Bobby keeps telling him to give it some time. Dean needs this. To deal.

Sam wonders if Dean is dealing at all. 

He tries to keep himself occupied. Bobby’s library is a good distraction, something to focus on. Sam reads. About demons, possession, exorcism rituals, protection. According to Bobby, Meg is only a receptacle for a hellish creature, just like all the other demons that are wandering the earth.

There's a lot to learn. Sam draws devil’s traps, also called Solomon’s circles, until he's got the symbol memorized. There are dozens of other sigils he wants to learn too.

No demon is ever going to mess with anybody ever again if he can stop it.

Sam grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and puts his sneakers on. Outside, the day is once again hot and clear. It is so strange to mourn someone in the middle of a bright summer. He wishes it would rain, cold wind blowing constantly, with the sky as grey as his mood. Ready to burst.

He finds Dean fixing whatever it is that needs fixing under the hood of a rusted mustang. He’s already sweating, his tee clinging to his back like some second skin.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Dean answers back.

He gets up and wipes his hands against his jeans, an old pair already stained with grease and… stuff.

“What’s up?” Dean asks after a moment of silence.

Sam sighs. He knows what he came to ask, but is not sure how Dean is going to react. Correction: he’s almost sure things aren’t going to go well. Dean has been in full-defensive mode since Dad’s death, ready to burst like an emotional time bomb.

“Was just wondering, ya know, when are we going to get back on the road.”

Dean looks at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he lets out a small, sad laugh.

“Why are you so eager to get back, Sam?”

“Meg is still out there. Others demons too.”

“So what? Wanna get revenge?”

“What? Well, I… She killed our father, Dean.”

“I know. Was there remember?”

Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and leans back against the car. He blinks under the sun. “So, what? We find and kill Meg because she killed our father? And the other demons? And any monster that crosses our path along the way?”

Sam doesn’t know how to answer. He'd expected… something other than this passive resistance.

“What do you want to do, Dean?”

“Fuck if I know, but I think you should go back to Stanford.” Dean says, lowering his head.

“You… What?” 

“Come on Sammy, remember in Chicago? It was only a few months back. You said it yourself: if we ever found that bastard who killed mom and finished the job… Ring any bell?”

“Yeah, I do, but things have changed now.”

Slowly but surely, anger starts burning very deep in Sam’s belly.

“Oh, yes. I forgot. Now, our father is dead.”

Dean kicks a rock on the ground, raising a cloud of dust. “Do you feel better, Sammy? Now that Yellow Eyes is dead?”

“It’s not a question of feeling better or not. It’s a thing that had to be done, and now…”

“Mom is still dead. Quoting you again here. It didn’t bring her back. We lost Dad. Pastor Jim, Caleb, they’re all dead. And for what? ‘Course, you can say that it was to prevent this monster from hurting other people, because that’s our job, but I’m… I’m wondering…”

“What’s going on, Dean?”

Finally, Dean looks up straight into Sam’s eyes. He’s close to tears and fighting hard to keep them from flowing. “You were right. Dad… Dad spent his whole life looking for the demon. Nothing mattered more to him. He lived in shady motels, got almost killed on a regular base, raise two sons who aren’t even fit for a normal life. And now he’s dead. Was it worth it?”

“What else could he have done?”

“I don’t know, Sam! I don’t… I don’t want you to end up like him. Me, all I know is freaking hunting monsters, but you… You almost made it, and I sucked you back in.”

“Normal is… Hell, Dean. That was before I discovered I had powers, before I learned all kinds of things and… I don’t want to go back to Stanford. We’ve just started to be brothers again. I wanna hunt with you."

He knows he's kind of pleading it makes him even more angry. He can’t stand Dean pushing him away. All they have left is each other. 

“I need to think about this,” is all Dean says.

Then, he turns back and starts working on the engine again.

“Fuck you,” Sam growls, leaving him there.

He doesn’t say: you can’t choose for me. He doesn’t say: you’re grieving and you aren't thinking straight. It would only turn into an ugly fight.

Sam walks back to the house eating up the distance with his long strides. Let him think, he tells himself. Let him deal. He’ll come around.

::: :::

The next day, when Sam wakes up, the Impala is gone and so is Dean. He’s not out running errands. There's a message to Sam on Bobby's kitchen counter.

Dean’s writing is blocky and neat, contrasting with his lack of subtlety in real life.

_Sam,_

_Need to spend some time by myself. I’ll be gone for a few days. Got my phone with me. You should think about our conversation: go back to Stanford, give that normal life you’ve always wanted another try. We’ll talk when I get back._

Sam is so mad he punches the wall a couple of times. Then, he calls Dean.

He doesn’t get anything more out of his brother than what he'd left in the note and Sam tells him he's a fucking jerk before hanging up.

Bobby calms him down. Dean wasn’t abandoning him. He just needed some space to deal with the death of John and the demon.

“I’m not going back to Stanford,” Sam says.

“Then you’ll just tell him that when he gets back.”

The day after, Sam calls Dean again. “I’m not going back to Stanford.” He says, like it’s the only thing he can think of now.

“Calm down, Sammy,” is Dean’s answer. “Stop being so damn mad. I just needed to ride for a while. We both need to think. I’ll call you back later.”

He does, the day after, just to tell him where he is, “so you won’t freak out like a little bitch.” Sam tells him to drag his ass back to Bobby’s. Dean says he’s not ready yet.

It goes on like that for five days. The fifth night, Dean calls Sam. It’s way past midnight and Sam is reading an old document about curses and witchcraft, sitting alone at Bobby’s table. Bobby is passed out on the couch.

Dean’s voice is slurry, his speech slower than usual. He’s seriously drunk.

“I think I should come back,” he announces between hiccups.

“I think you should. Where are you?”

“Funny motel. There’s… the tables are shaped like naked chicks, just like it that movie, A Clockwork Orange.”

“I mean the town, dumbass.”

“Oh. Hum… I’m in Peoria, Illinois. Once when we were young, dad took us to the zoo here. I don’t… You couldn’t have been more than three. You cried when we got to the monkeys’ cage and we had to leave… There was this… Shit. Spilled my beer.”

There's a shuffling noise.

“Dean?”

“Wait.”

Dean curses and stays silent for a whole minute.

“Dean?”

“Yep, I’m here.”

“Come back, okay?”

“…Yeah, should probably do that, as soon as I’m sober,” Dean murmurs reluctantly.

“Good idea. We’ll talk tomorrow, alright?”

“Sure. Sammy?”

“Huh?”

“I miss him so fucking much.”

“I know. Me too.” Sam blinks a couple of tears away. He suddenly feels the need to be with Dean, to hug him, or pat him on the shoulder, anything that could make him feel better. “Take care, Dean.”

“Will do.”

Dean hangs up.

::: :::

Dean doesn’t call the next day. He’s probably on the road, letting the Impala swallow the miles as fast as it can. Sam calls him around eight that night and all he gets is his voice mail.

The day after, he leaves four messages, calls Dean’s other cellphone and gives him a lecture about how it’s not cool to scare your little brother.

Dean doesn’t appear in Bobby’s backyard. He doesn’t call back.

Finally, on August fifth, after three days without any news, Sam asks Bobby to loan him a car. 

If there is one moment where he wished his powers would work, it’s now. But there hasn’t been anything since Yellow Eye's death. His powers have always been closely related to the demon. Maybe they’re just gone now.

“M’gonna call around and see if I can find something out. I'll call you if anything comes up. Where was he last time you spoke to him?” Bobby asks, giving him a set of keys.

“Peoria, Illinois.”

“M’sure he’s okay.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam snaps. “He was drunk last time we spoke. He wouldn't have been as sharp as he usually is. And Yellow Eyes’ followers are probably out there, looking for revenge.”

“Sam.”

“Why did he have to leave? Why would he do something this careless?”

“The guy just lost his dad. Give him a break.”

“I lost him too!”

Bobby shrugs. “S’not what I meant, Sam.”

Sam sighs and brushes his hair away from his face. “I know. Sorry. But I won’t lose Dean too, not after everything we’ve been through.

::: :::

Despite their combined efforts, Bobby and Sam can’t find anything about Dean. A man under the name of Butch McQueen, one of Dean's aliases, used his credit card to rent a room at the Orange Motel in Peoria, Illinois on August 1st, prepaid for two days. He left when he was supposed to.

There's been nothing since.

“No choice but to start from there, Bobby tells Sam. “I’ll check the hospital admissions in the area.”

“Fuck, Bobby, what the hell happened to him?”

“I don’t know, boy.” 

Bobby sounds worried and pissed at the same time.

::: :::

Sam makes it to Peoria in two days. By then, it’s August 9th and Sam hasn’t spoken to Dean in six days.

 _Please be okay,_ he keeps thinking, _please be okay you jerk, hate you for scaring me, for leaving me behind. Please, please be okay._

The manager of the Orange Motel remembers the guy: nothing special about him, nice muscle car, left with his room in order. Sam says thanks and gets out of the office with the number of Dean’s room memorized. It’s the last one at the end of the lot, of course, and it’s vacant.

He’s about to pick the lock when he hears something behind him, an unmistakable noise for someone who’s practically been raised in the Impala. The rumble of the engine is close, enough for Sam to be sure it’s coming from the street just in front of the parking lot even before he turns on his heels to look.

Sure enough, there’s the Impala, passing slowly right in front of Sam, and it’s Dean behind the wheel.

“DEAN!” Sam yells, and he’s certain his brother must have heard him, but he doesn’t turn his head, just keep on cruising by.

Sam runs back to his car. By the time he exits the parking lot, he sees the Chevy turning left at the end of the street and follows it. 

What the hell is going on? Anger, fear, frustration, all those feelings are pounding in Sam’s head and he clenches his jaw so hard it hurts.

The Impala is there, waiting at a traffic light on the next street. The traffic is light. Sam finds himself waiting just behind it. He presses the horn constantly, until he sees Dean glance at him in the rear view mirror. 

Dean knows it’s him. It’s written in his eyes. He smiles, the fucker, a smile usually reserved for those monsters he’s about to gank, all teeth, not a hint of joy in it.

This isn’t Dean, a small voice says in Sam’s mind. 

A shifter, maybe. A freaking shifter. Which means Dean must be held prisoner somewhere… if he’s still alive.

“Shut up, shut up!” Sam growls, hitting the wheel with both hands.

The light turns green and Sam has no other option than to keep following. He tries to calm down while he dials Bobby’s number on his phone. The Impala is still driving at a slow pace, below the speed limit.

After he’s explained to the old hunter what is going on as best as he can, through half-formed sentences and strings of curses, Bobby cuts him off.

“Could be a shapeshifter, you’re right, but you got no clue. Just the fact that he’s behaving strangely.”

“Bobby! I’m behind him right now. He recognized me and still he keeps going, like he wants me to follow him, like it’s a fucking game.”

“Okay, well, it could be a lot of things besides a shifter. Did possession even cross your mind, Sam?”

“What?”

Sam turns on the next street, still following Dean closely. They’re on a quiet road now, surrounded by woods.

“Hell, you guys just killed Yellow Eyes and Meg wasn’t really subtle about how she felt about that.”

“Possession is… People are usually possessed when they’re already in a compromised state of mind, you said it yourself, it’s written in Dad's journal.”

“And losing his father surely didn’t do anything to mess with Dean’s head,” Bobby says with sarcasm.

“Oh god, what do I do? I left the Colt at your place and…”

“Sam, it _could_ be possession. Didn’t say it was for sure. You tried calling him since he started to drag you through town?”

Sam swallows loudly. No. He hadn't and he suddenly feels very stupid.

“No.”

“Then what are you waiting for. Get back to me afterwards.”

Bobby hangs up.

Sam calls Dean on speed dial and is surprised to see him pick up on the first ring.

“Heya, Sammy. Having fun, yet?”

It’s Dean’s normal tone, but his voice is wrong, just a tad higher than usual.

“Where's my brother?" 

There's that smile again, in the rearview mirror. “I’m right here, dude.”

“You’re not Dean.”

A throaty laugh follows. “Awww, Sam, I’m hurt. Don't you recognize your own brother, you little fuck?”

“Christo,” is out of Sam’s mouth before he can even process the thought.

He can’t see if Dean’s eyes turn black, but the long hiss at the other end of the line is enough to convince him.

“You’re a demon,” he states, voice shaking.

“Wow, you really are the brains of the family,” Dean mocks. “Ah, this is just too familiar, Sam. Still running after your big bro like the first time we met.”

There's a small dirt road to their left. Sam isn’t surprised to see the Impala taking it. He follows, still shocked by what he’s just heard.

“Meg,” he states.

“That’s me, Sam. Well, not really. Poor little lost girl, Meg Masters –the meatsuit I was wearing, doesn’t exist anymore. When I got out of her she just collapsed and died. I may have overdone things a little with her. Anyway, guess you can still call me Meg.”

Sam’s brain is in overdrive mode. He tries to remember everything he’s learned over the past two weeks from Bobby’s books. There's salt and holy water in the bag on the passenger seat. He thinks he could recite the exorcism ritual by heart –he practically has a photographic memory- but all the Latin words are mixing and shifting in his mind like an unsolvable puzzle and he’s scared, to the marrow of his bones, of what’s going to happen to Dean, what has already happened as far as he knows.

They once pushed Meg from the top of a building. She got up and got away, but Bobby told him it was the demon inside the body keeping it alive and moving.

What if it’s already too late?

“I still got the Colt,” he murmurs. “I don’t have it with me, but if you promise not to hurt Dean-“

Meg laughs. “I don’t care about the fucking Colt, Sam.”

Dean/Meg hangs up, then. The road is getting narrow. It’s seven in the evening and the sun hasn’t set yet, but the trees are thick and it’s hard to see. Sam fumbles in his bag, driving with one hand, to get the salt and holy water flask out. His gun and his knife are already in his pocket. He’s about to call Bobby back when suddenly, the road widens and the Impala slows down.

There is a clearing with some ruins of what could’ve been a small chapel or a school. 

The Impala stops and the engine shuts off. Sam parks a few feet behind it and shoves the salt and flask of holy water in his pocket. He waits.

Dean gets out of the Chevy and walks slowly to the middle of the clearing where he sits on a section of what remains of the concrete fountation, looking relaxed and calm.

“Damn it,” Sam swears. 

His heart is beating hard in his chest, his stomach is churning. He gets out too, slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. He raises both hands so that Meg can see clearly he doesn’t have anything to harm her.

Not yet.

“Let my brother go, Meg,” he says, walking the distance until only a couple of meters separate them.

Now that he can see Dean clearly, Sam’s fear rises up a notch. His clothes are dirty, the sleeve of his leather jacket is torn. He sports a few days stubble, his hair is dull, plastered to his skull. His eyes are sunken, his lips chapped. He has a long scratch on his left cheek and his hands are covered in a brownish substance that resembles dried blood.

“Why would I do that? I love this vessel. Love the company. Geez, your damn brother is fighting so hard in here.”

Meg/Dean points to Dean’s temple, smiling. “Keeps screaming. Never stops. When I got into him he was drunk, almost passed out. Don’t think I could’ve done it when he was sober.”

“Please let him go,” Sam repeats.

“No!” Dean snarls, all teeth. “Don’t you want to know what I want?”

“Yes. Anything you say.”

“I don’t want ANYTHING!” Meg screams, standing up. 

Dean flicks his right hand and Sam is pushed back a few feet, falls hard on his ass. Dean’s eyes turn black.

“You ruined everything,” he explains, walking toward Sam slowly. “You killed my father. He was supposed to bring Him back, he was supposed to open Hell’s gates! And now, everything is falling apart, and there is. Nothing. I can do. To change that. I don’t want the Colt, I don’t want to continue my father’s work. I want fucking revenge.”

“Meg. Kill me. Kill me and let him go. I’m the one who pulled the trigger. I’m the one who killed-“

“SHUT UP!” Dean screams.

Another flick of his hand. Sam falls back, lying flat on the ground, an unbearable pressure holding him there. Dean/Meg tilts his head toward him, a mocking grin on his lips. “I knew you would come. I knew you would come looking for him, given time. I had a little fun with him, ya know. Played a little dirty. His mind is a freaking mess, Sam. And when I'm done with him, I’m gonna take you and give you just what you deserve.”

 _You can still talk you moron,_ Sam suddenly realizes, fighting the pressure. _You can still talk._

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica ”

“SHUT UP!” Dean moans, swaying on his feet.

The pressure is suddenly gone. Sam quickly sits up and fetches the holy water flask from his pocket.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Meg spits at him, pressing Dean’s hands against Dean’s skull.

“Get out of him.”

“Not before he’s rotting meat-“

Sam throws some holy water towards the demon. It sizzles and makes Dean step backward. 

What’s next? Come on, Sam, what’s…

“Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…”

Dean/Meg growls and falls to his knees, body jerking in agony. The demon’s eyes close and Sam stands up, walking closer. He’s about to go on with the ritual when Dean’s eyes open, normal, green and wide with fear and confusion.

It's Dean. Sam doesn’t know how he knows, but he doesn’t doubt it for a second.

“Too late, Sammy,” Dean rasps, breathing unevenly.

He falls forward on his hands and lifts his head slowly. Sam crouches in front of him.

“Can’t hold her, don’t you get it?” Dean says, grimacing in pain. “Too late for me, she's messed with my brain I won’t… I won’t get out of this alive anyway…”

“Dean-“

“Run before she-“

Dean’s body convulses and he falls on his side. A low, ever-growing laugh escapes his lips. Whatever control he'd had over Meg, it’s over now. Sam stands up and doesn’t waste another second.

“Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te cessa decipere humanas creaturas-”

“You’ll never have your brother back!” Dean/ Meg moans in rage, getting on his hands and knees and crawling to another broken piece of a rock wall to his left.

Sam’s mind is suddenly blank. Because he knows, he knows what’s about to happen.

_No no no no please no please…_

He throws another spurt of holy water on the demon’s back to try and stop it, but it’s too late.

Dean/Meg grabs the wall with both hands and slams his forehead on it.

“NO!” Sam screams.

Dean’s body twists in grotesque ways, convulses again until it’s flat on its back. His mouth opens wide and a gush of black smoke escapes him as he yells until his voice breaks.

Sam practically launches himself over him. Dean’s face is covered in fresh blood. The wound at the junction of his hairline and his forehead is like an opened, distorted mouth, with something white shining in the middle.

The bone.

“Oh god, oh god, Dean,” Sam pleads, grabbing his brother so that his upper body can lie on his legs.

Dean jerks feebly, blinks. His eyes roll in their sockets and a very soft moan escapes his lips.

“Dean, you’re okay. I’m calling the ambulance, you’re gonna be-“

Suddenly, Dean’s green stare seems to focus. He looks at Sam. His features soften. He seems almost peaceful.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For getting that bitch outta’me.”

“Dean, don’t talk, I’ll-“

Sam is fumbling in his jacket pockets to find his phone.

“Too late, Sammy,” Dean cuts him off. “Sorry, man. You be good, okay?”

He raises a shaking hand and pats Sam on the shoulder without any strength.

Dean smiles at him with so much affection Sam’s breath gets struck in his throat.

“Dean, you stay with me, you hear? You STAY WITH ME!”

But Dean’s body goes limp. His eyes don’t close, just flip to the back. Sam knows his brother’s life is hanging by a thread. He hefts his brother into his arms, and runs to his car. He doesn’t have any idea where he is and the time the ambulance would take to find them is a luxury he can’t afford. 

By the time Sam finds the road leading to the closest hospital, led by the 9-1-1 operator he has on the other end of the line, Dean’s breathing is shallow and weak. 

Sam is losing him.

::: :::

They'd given him a towel to wash his hands and his face of his brother's blood.

Still, the proof is there, on his clothes, drying and hardening, getting that brownish tint. Dean's life is on Sam’s shirt and jeans, spilled by a demon.

He waits for a very long time, pacing back and forth in the trauma waiting room. People come and go. Bobby calls twice. He’s already on his way.

Cops had come to the hospital after Sam had told the E.R. doctor that his brother had been mugged when he surprised two guys trying to hijack his car. They hit him with a crowbar and ran away before Sam could even have a good look at them.

He’s not sure the cops have bought it, doesn’t care. What can they do anyway? Sam had had no choice: the kind of injuries that Dean sustains could hardly be explained by: he fell on his face.

It’s close to midnight when Sam finally receives some news. The doctor is young, can’t be that much older than himself. He’s a neurologist. Sam doesn’t remember his name. All he hears is that Dean’s brain injuries are severe, there is bleeding and swelling and frankly, the doctor has never seen anything like it. It’s not a typical brain injury, he can’t explain what is abnormal about it, but Dean is in a coma. They did what they could. He probably won’t live through until morning.

“You're telling me my brother’s going to die?” Sam asks, voice dull and cold.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith but that's the most probable scenario.”

“Can I be with him?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

::: :::

Dean is in the intensive care unit, surrounded by machines. A respirator is helping him to breath. His head is wrapped up in white gauze. There are wires coming from underneath it, some others stuck to his chest under the pale blue gown. An IV line sticks out of the side of his neck. He's hooded up to some kind of monitor as well as a machine that records his heart rate.

Dean’s hands are resting over the sheets. His face is pale, his eyes swollen. Nothing could have prepared Sam to see his brother like that. He sits on the chair near the bed and takes Dean’s hand between his. It’s cold, lifeless. 

Sam tries to say something, but bursts out crying instead. He wraps an arm around Dean’s waist and shoves his head into the sheets, as close to his brother as he can manage without hurting him more. He stays like that, his head empty and his body numb as the sorrow flows out of him.

 _Don’t go please_ , is all he can think.

He doesn’t leave the room until morning comes.

Dean makes it through the night, to the doctors and nurses’ surprise. 

They don’t know him, not like Sam does.

::: :::

All the next day, Sam tries to understand his brother’s state. There are meetings with the doctors, questions to the staff, calls to Bobby who’s still on the road.

Research. For Sam, it’s that or go crazy.

The neurologist’ name is Alex Murphy. He shows Sam a scan of Dean’s brain plus some graphic charts of Dean’s neurological functions taken during the night.

“He should be in a vegetative state, but he isn’t. Not really, although there is very little brain activity. To be frank, Mr. Smith, I don’t understand how he’s even alive. Of course, the respirator helps, but his condition is stable. Which is… not what we’d expect.”

 _That’s what happens when a demon messes with your brain,_ Sam suggests silently.

“What is the plan?” Is what he asks instead.

“Well… Mr. Smith, there is nothing else we can do except make him as comfortable as possible and monitor him closely. He’s receiving a combination of meds to help with the brain injuries. I’m sorry, but the fact that his condition hasn’t worsened doesn’t mean it’s going to get better. I want you to be prepared for the most realistic outcome. In my opinion, it is likely that he will remain in his comatose state.”

Sam doesn’t like the defeat he senses in Murphy’s voice, but he keeps his temper under control. 

Bobby arrives at the hospital at the end of the afternoon. Sam is sitting at Dean’s side, reading through a neuroscience thesis on the internet. Since Dean’s condition is stable, the nursing staff in the intensive care unit has tried to get him to follow the visiting hours, which are ridiculously short. Sam has steadfastly refused to leave the room.

“My brother is hovering between life and death and you want me to follow the fucking visiting hours?” He had ask, very calm, both eyebrows raised in disbelief and anger burning cold inside of him. “I’m not going anywhere. What are you gonna do about it? Send some security guard to get me out of my dying’s brother’s room?”

They haven't bothered him since then.

“Holy fucking Christ,” Bobby grunts, freezing on the threshold.

“Dean, Bobby is here,” Sam whispers softly. 

He turns back to look at the old man who’s holding his cap between his hands, his eyes bright in the middle of his shocked face.

“What the hell did she do to him?” Bobby whispers, falling into a chair on the other side of the bed.

“I don’t care,” Sam closes the laptop. “We have to do something, Bobby, I don’t know, find some hoodoo priest and lay some mojo on him.” 

“Sam…”

Sam doesn’t listen to Bobby’s warning tone. He needs to concentrate.

“I did it once, I can do it again.”

“What, the healer? That was his crazy wife using some black magic to summon a reaper, boy.”

“Yeah, so? I mean, some of them might be legit, right? Even if they’re not…”

“Hey. Stop that. Right now. You’re not thinking straight.”

Sam shakes his head. Is he thinking about using black magic, really?

To find out that he is worries him a little, but not much. Not as much as it should.

“They told me he wouldn’t make it through the night, Bobby,” he says, his voice shaking a little. “They told me he was going to die. He… she hit his head on a fucking piece of concrete!”

“What are the doctors saying?”

“Nothing. They uh… say all they can do is make him as comfortable as possible. They don’t understand the way his brain is messed up, but hey, I bet they didn’t consider the scientific implications of a Demon playing with it.”

“Possession can kill, Sam. When a demon invades a body, a mind, there is no telling what damage it will cause.”

Just imagining Dean struggling with this… thing taking control of him makes Sam’s stomach churn. He bends forward a little and grabs Dean’s hand, holding it firmly. 

“I’ve been doing some research on head trauma, brain injuries, anything like that. And the only thing I’m sure of is that this… field is still a mystery, mostly, for doctors and researchers. Some people wake up after twenty years of being in a coma, some make almost complete recoveries even though their brain has been badly damaged. It’s… It’s Dean, Bobby, and if he can, he’ll come back to me, no matter how long it’ll take. If he knows how much I need him, he’ll come back. He’s strong.”

Bobby nods and doesn’t say anything. Sam guesses the man wouldn’t dare take away whatever hope he’s got left.


	3. Chapter 3

The first week passes by in a blur. After two whole days without leaving the hospital, Sam lets Bobby have his way and finds a motel room nearby. When Sam climbs into the Impala, Dean’s presence is palpable, so intense he feels his heart shatter in his chest, and it hurts so damn much.

In the motel room, Sam takes a shower and collapses on the bed. He sleeps for a couple of hours, but is soon awaken by a nightmare he tries his best not to remember. He grabs something to eat from a vending machine and goes straight back to the hospital. Bobby isn’t happy with him, grumbles about keeping his strength up and being in this for the long haul. Sam doesn’t really listen. He breathes better when he can see Dean, when he can touch him.

Two or three days later –Sam doesn’t really know how long, he's having trouble keeping track of time as it passes- someone from the hospital’s administration asks to meet him because, apparently, the fees for Dean’s hospitalization have already surpassed the credit card limit. Bobby steps up then and introduces himself as Dean’s uncle, tells Sam not to worry, he’ll take care of it.

Sam can’t even conceive that money is an issue here, not when his brother is holding onto life by a thread. When Bobby comes back one hour later and tells him that the insurance has been taken care of, he nods and doesn't give it another thought.

Five days after Dean’s admittance, a nurse unwraps the gauze bandage wrapped around his head. Sam is there, leaning against the wall. In his mind, the shock of his brother’s forehead splitting against the stone foundation, small drops of blood flying in all directions, keeps repeating itself.

Sam almost bursts out crying when he sees that Dean’s head had been shaved completely. He swallows hard and clenches his jaw. His brother’s body has been violated in every way possible. His hair is such a big part of his personality. Sam remembers him as a teenager, spending several minutes in front of the mirror, rearranging his spikes until he was satisfied.

The forehead injury is swollen and angry looking, closed not with stitches, but with surgical metal pins. There is another closed wound, cleaner looking, going from behind the right ear to the middle of the back of the skull. That’s where they had to perform the surgery to remove a big blood clot. It’s closed with metal pins as well. There is an almost unnoticeable blond dusting of fine hair overing Dean’s scalp. Sam wonders if the hair is ever going to grow back on the wounds.

::: :::

After a week, he and Bobby have settled into a kind of routine. Bobby has a room in the same motel, ten minutes away from the hospital. Whenever Sam leaves to take a shower and sleep a little, Bobby stays with Dean. Bobby’s supposed to be looking for a healer, but Sam isn't sure the old hunter is putting any serious effort into it. His friend looks older and defeated these days. Whenever he’s in the room with Dean, he gets that faraway look that speaks of defeat and absence of hope.

Sam does his best to ignore it. He does some research on his own, reads tons of medical articles about brain injuries, concentrating on the success stories and looking for a doctor who’s worked miracles, if someone like that even exists.

At the two week mark, on August twenty-fourth, Dr. Murphy decides to try to take Dean off the respirator. His vital signs are good and his brain activity, although it hasn’t improved, hasn’t gotten any worse either. It’s a delicate procedure. Sam agrees only after asking every question he can think of, with the assurance that at the first sign that his brother is in respiratory distress, they’ll put him back on the machine.

He doesn’t get to stay with Dean for the procedure though. The nurse sends him back to the waiting room where he drinks bad coffee while Bobby tries to calm him down. It takes two hours, since the oxygen flow has to be decreased gradually before they even try to remove the tube. When Dr. Murphy finally comes back, Sam is nothing more than a bundle of nerves.

“He’s okay,” Murphy tells him immediately, raising his hands in a calming gesture. “He’s doing good. We’re monitoring his oxygen level. He has a mask on for now but it’s only a precaution. He’s breathing on his own.”

“Wow,” Sam laughs nervously. “It’s… it’s a good sign, right?”

Murphy looks around. They’re alone in the waiting room. “Can we sit? There are some things we need to talk about.”

Sam agrees nervously and almost trips over his feet in his haste to take a seat. Bobby is quiet, almost brooding. 

“First of all,” Murphy says, rubbing at his forehead in a tired gesture, “I’m thinking about moving Dean to our neurological care unit. He’s stable enough not to require constant monitoring and there's a section of the unit especially prepared for comatose patients. It’s quieter than the ICU and it will be easier for you to be with Dean. The nursing staff is accustomed to patients like your brother. He’ll receive the best of care.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam agrees. That's good, right? If Dean doesn’t need to stay in the intensive care unit anymore, it has to be good, somehow.

“We’ll wait twenty-four hours to be sure his breathing doesn't deteriorate, then I’ll arrange the transfer. It’s only a floor down from here.”

“Okay.”

“That said, Sam… You have to realize that even if Dean is breathing on his own, it doesn’t really mean he’s doing better. I’m not being pessimistic here and it’s good that you keep some hope. But everything about your brother’s condition suggests that the coma is deep. The brain damage is still impossible to assess and will continue to be unless he wakes up, which seems highly unlikely. Even if he does wake up, he will most likely be severely disabled. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Sam nods. He does. He gets it, really. He doesn’t bring up some of the medical stories he’s read, in which patients in similar conditions to Dean’s have woken up and now lead more or less normal lives. It would sound pathetic, Sam knows, but there's nothing to stop him from keeping those stories in mind.

“So,” Bobby asks, playing with his hat. “You sayin’ we’re in this for the long haul.”

“Yes, definitely. Sam, Mr.Smith, as I understand it, you two are Dean’s only family. You both have to take care of yourselves and take some time away from the hospital occasionally. It might seem cruel, but life goes on. Sam, I know your brother and you are not from here, so maybe in a couple of weeks we could arrange a medical transfer for Dean to be closer to home. That way you could still go on with your life and-“

Sam bursts out laughing then. He can’t help himself. It comes out desperate and scary. “We… we don’t have a home. We travel around the country, for our work.”

“Well, maybe you boys can locate close to Sioux Falls,” Bobby suggests.

Maybe. Still. Sam shrugs. Moving in with Bobby, finding work and visiting Dean once a day at the hospital in Sioux Falls sounds too much like something he could do for months, years. It sounds like it could become permanent. He feels sick.

“Anyway,” Dr. Murphy continues when he sees Sam's reaction. “We’re heading more toward a chronic coma than an acute one and I’m sorry to tell you this, but those are the facts.”

“Thank you doctor,” Bobby says.

“Can I go back to Dean now?”

Sam is already standing up, ready to go. 

“Of course,” the doctor looks at him with too much compassion in his eyes. Sam kind of wants to punch it off his face. Strange, that’s the kind of thing that’s more Dean's style, or so Sam had always thought..

Sam guesses he must have changed a lot since his brother came to get him at Stanford. All of his then dreams seem futile and childlike now. He can’t help but see his whole 'running away from his family to have a normal life' phase as a child’s temper tantrum.

What if he’d stayed? How different would things be now?

Somehow, he'd thought Dean would look different without the respirator, more… alive. He doesn’t. The oxygen mask hides most of his face and his skin still has that waxy tint that makes him look like some kind of life-size doll.

Sam sits close to Dean. “Bet it feels good to be rid of that tube down your throat, right? It’s a step, Dean. You’re gonna come back, right? There are still a whole lot of monsters out there just waiting for you to gank them.”

Dean’s chest rises on his own. It makes Sam feel better, somehow.

::: :::

_Peoria, September 1st_

Dean’s private room on the third floor is quieter and bigger than his ICU cubicle. Sam doesn’t know how Bobby managed it, but when he asks the old man simply says, “Think you Winchesters invented credit card fraud?” If Sam had had more energy, he would have insisted on more than that, but he’s trying so hard to keep it together for Dean he can’t bring himself to care too much.

His own finances are getting dangerously low. He's had to move to another motel because it’s never wise to stay too long when paying with a fraudulent credit card. The new motel is cheaper, the kind where most of the rooms are paid for by the hour. As long as he can sleep a little and take a shower, Sam doesn’t care. Toward the end of Dean’s third week in the coma, though, Sam has to leave him with Bobby for two nights in a row while he goes out of town to play pool and darts to make a little money. He gets enough to last two more weeks, if he’s careful.

Sam doesn’t want to think of a more permanent solution, because it would imply Dean staying unconscious for an undetermined period of time, and he’s not ready to face that.

He may never be ready.

On the morning of September 1st, Bobby arrives at the hospital shortly after ten. Sam is helping the nurse finish Dean’s sponge bath. He wants to learn how to do it correctly. So far, the nursing team is doing an amazing job, but Sam always feels better when he’s the one taking care of Dean’s needs.

“Care for a cup of caffeine?” Bobby asks in a strange, almost ceremonial way. 

He wants to talk, Sam can feel it. 

He finishes washing Dean’s face carefully and follows the old hunter to the cafeteria. They sit in a quiet corner. Faint, annoying instrumental music is playing feebly.

“So, what do you want to talk about?” Sam asks up front because he’s everything but patient these days, unless he’s in Dean’s room.

“Have you thought about it, Sam? Moving to Sioux Falls when Dean is well enough to travel?”

Sam looks down at his Styrofoam cup, at the tepid, too clear beverage. “I don’t… I’m not sure about that, Bobby.”

Bobby nods, like he had been expecting that answer. He gets a small pamphlet out of his pocket.

“Found this last week in the ICU waiting room. This couple, they have a house five minutes away from the hospital and they rent rooms at a very cheap rate for people who have family members who are patients here. They have a small charity foundation, sometin’ like that. Anyway, I went to check it out yesterday and, well… It’s a big house, very clean, and there's a common kitchen and common bathroom and the couple seems nice.”

“Oh.” Sam takes the pamphlet. The price of a room for a month is what he would pay for a standard motel room for three days. It’s a good solution. “Do they have a room available?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, a couple. They’re ready to have you if you want.”

“Of course. It’s… wow, that would save a lot of money.”

Then, Sam realizes what Bobby is doing, what he really wants to talk about, and he feels guilty for not figuring it out before.

“You’re going back to Sioux Falls,” he murmurs.

A deep blush colors Bobby’s bearded cheeks. “Sam, I… there are some things I have to take care of and um… Hell, supernatural creatures are still out there, demon activity is reaching a peak and there's the Salvage yard and…”

“No, it’s okay, Bobby. I understand. Don’t… No need to apologize. You can’t give up everything and just… stay here, waiting for something to happen.”

“I wish you’d consider moving Dean to Sioux Falls.”

Sam feels sick at the thought, going through life as Bobby’s fellow hunter and visiting his comatose brother once every now and then. They’re not there yet, he doesn’t want to stop hoping. He can’t.

Bobby seems to understand what’s going through Sam’s mind. He clears his throat and readjusts his cap on his head. “Love this boy like a son. Breaks my heart to see him like this,” he grumbles into his coffee cup.

“You’ll keep trying, right?”

“Trying what?”

“To find something that could help him. With everything we know, Bobby, I can’t believe we-“

“I’ll keep trying,” Bobby cuts him short, a little too quickly for Sam’s liking. 

The conversation tires him, forces his mind to go places he doesn’t want to. He claps his hands together and empties the rest of his cup. “I’ll go visit this house. You’ll stay with Dean in the meanwhile, right?”

“Yeah,” Bobby sighs. “Okay. Sam?”

“What?”

“I’ll come back in a couple of weeks. I won’t let you carry this on your own.”

Sam slowly stands up, stretching his limbs. “You've already helped so much, Bobby. You don’t have to feel guilty. Besides, I don’t mind… Carrying this, like you say. Dean did it all his life, keeping us together, taking care of dad and me, trying to stop us from killing each other. It’s only fair that I get to do the same for him now.”

And just like that, Sam feels something lighten in his chest, like he’d spent his life blinded by his own frustration and selfishness. This feels like redemption, in a way. He smiles. Bobby frowns.

“I’ll get him through this,” Sam whispers. 

Bobby stays silent. He looks defeated. Sam ignores it.


	4. Chapter 4

_Peoria, October 15_

Sam is awake at dawn, despite having worked until midnight the evening before. He dresses and grabs his bag of dirty laundry. He’ll stop by the Laundromat on his way back from the hospital. He’s down to his last pair of clean jeans.

Sam locks the door of the room he rents on the first floor and stops by the bathroom with his shaving kit. He’ll take a shower tonight. It’s usually quieter then.

Walking downstairs, he stops to chat a little with Rose on the staircase. Rose’s husband is dying of liver cancer. She’s been renting a room at Hannah’s Shelter for the last two weeks. Roger, her husband, isn't doing well. He isn’t even conscious anymore.

“I think it’s better this way,” Rose tells Sam, smiling sadly. “He’s suffered so much.”

She’s a pretty woman in her early seventies. Her husband has been fighting cancer for the last five years and she admits without shame that it will be a relief for the both of them when he passes on.

Sam likes Rose. She’s one of the few people here with whom he has connected. Most of the other renters don’t stay for more than a few days, people with family members in the ICU or undergoing an important surgery. They’re like ghosts, haunting the house with haggard looks, keeping to themselves. And then they leave, some of them beaming with relief, some of them heavy with sorrow and grief.

In the big common kitchen, Maria Framingham, the co-owner of the house, is already busy making coffee and preparing breakfast. She smiles warmly at Sam.

“How are you doing?”

“Good.”

Sam grabs an apple from the table and waits for the coffee to be done.

“Still no change with your brother?”

“No. He’s stable.”

Maria is a discreet presence. Her husband Joe can be seen here and there, fixing a pipe, mowing the lawn, smiling shyly when he sees Jared, or giving a soft nod. The couple are in their late fifties. Sam had learned that they opened this house in memory of their daughter, Hannah, who died of leukemia fifteen years ago. They had been living in a small town one hour away from the hospital and all the trips for the chemotherapy, all the times they found themselves sleeping on plastic chairs in some waiting room at the hospital, gave them the idea to buy this house and help people in the same situation. A large portrait of Hannah hangs in the living room, a five year old girl with pig-tails and bright eyes. Sam can’t look at it without being assaulted by sadness. 

“Hey Sam.”

“Hi Laura, how are you doing.”

Laura had already been here when Sam moved in. Her son had undergone an important back surgery to prevent his spine from getting too distorted. His name is Luke and he suffers from muscular dystrophy. There were complications after the surgery but the worst is behind them. Each day, Laura seems a little happier.

“The doctor said we could probably leave in a week, if Luke keeps improving. Can’t wait to finally take him home.”

Laura lives two hours away from the hospital. Her husband visits on the weekend. They seem like a strong couple, determined to let their son live the best life he can under the circumstances. 

Sam sometimes wonders what Laura, or Rose –or even Maria think of him, of his situation. He doesn’t share a lot. They know that his brother has been in a coma for two months, that he isn’t improving or getting worse. He wonders if they pity him.

Sam doesn’t think a lot about those things, about Dean's unchanging state, about his new life here in Peoria, spending his days at the hospital, working in the evening as a janitor in a lawyer’s office. 

Time passes, but Sam barely acknowledges it. He’s in a constant waiting mode. He can be patient. He can have all the patience in the world for Dean.

Bobby had visited last week and renewed his invitation for Sam to settle in Sioux Falls. Dean’s transfer by ambulance could easily be arranged. It would be so much easier for all of them.

Sam had refused calmly. When Dean wakes up, he's going to need special care. Sam prefers that care be provided by the hospital’s staff who already knows Dean well, in an environment Sam has come to feel comfortable in.

There's another reason Sam can’t express out loud, can barely admit to himself. Living with Bobby would mean getting close to the hunter’s world again. It would mean hearing constantly about Wendigos and demon sightings and hunters in need of backup. Sam doesn’t want to be associated with that anymore, not even to help with research. The supernatural world is the reason his mother and father died, and why his brother, who’s always seemed unbreakable in Sam’s little brother eyes, is laying in a bed, unconscious.

Sam has come to terms with the fact that neither he nor Bobby would find a supernatural cure. That had been the last door Sam had closed. He'd kept it open for as long as he could. No more hunting for the Winchesters. No more talking of demons and beasts feeding off people. They’re out. Whatever happens, whatever state Dean is in when he wakes up, they’ll never hunt again. Sam will make sure of it.

Sam chats a little longer then gets ready to walk the short distance to the hospital. He likes the exercise, plus, he never drives the Impala anymore. He doesn't like to leave it out in the open in the parking lot. Joe Framingham had offered to keep it in his garage, stating that such a beauty should be kept away from too many envious eyes, and Sam had accepted. 

It’s cold that morning. Sam barely feels the wind blowing through his dull hair. He walks at a good pace along the road that’s become so familiar to him. Peoria is a beautiful town. When Dean wakes up, maybe they’ll go back to the zoo, like when they were kids.

The night shift staff is still there when he arrives on Dean’s floor. He likes arriving early because then he can have news about Dean’s night first hand. 

He stops by the nurse station. Joseph, a tall black man who’s usually in charge of Dean’s section, is writing notes on a clipboard behind the desk. The head night nurse, Nora, smiles at Sam while preparing a syringe of clear liquid. It’s quiet.

“Hey, Sam,” Joseph greets him. “Give me a minute.”

“No problem.”

Sam fidgets near the desk, trying not to show his impatience. He feels guilty enough as it is, working four evenings a week. Those days, he has to leave the hospital by four in the afternoon, leaving his brother alone for the evening. He usually calls around ten to get some news before the evening shift ends and he always carries his phone to be sure he can be reached. Even with all that, imagining Dean so still, so quiet, alone in his room, always makes him feel like a jerk.

“How's he doing?” He asks when Joseph finally stands up and walks toward him.

“We had to take out his feeding tube again.”

Sam sighs.

“Yeah, but he's doing better now. Don’t worry, Sam. Some patients need some time to get used to it. We’ll try again in a couple of days.”

“Yeah…”

Dean’s weight loss is a concern. Sam doesn’t want to think about how he appears to have shrunk, somehow, since the beginning of his coma. Providing nutrients through an I.V. line is only a temporary solution. Eventually, the patients have to be fed through a feeding tube that passes through the nose to reach the stomach. Dean is having trouble tolerating it. When he’s fed, he always suffers from reflux. Even when it’s over, hours later, he’ll gag almost constantly. It’s hard to watch. Sam wonders if his brother can feel the pain. It can’t be comfortable anyway.

“We put him back on the I.V. hyper alimentation solution,” Joseph explains. “Oh, and we got the result of his urine analysis back. Seems like the infection is gone for good.”

That’s another consequence of being in a coma: a catheter that's in place for too long tends to make patients vulnerable to bladder infections. They’d only noticed it when emptying the U-bag, because of the smell. 

“Good. No more antibiotics, then.”

“We’ll continue this round of antibiotics for another twenty four hours, just to be sure.”

Sam nods and thanks Joseph, then makes his way to Dean’s room The door is half open. It’s still dark in there, the curtains are drawn. Sam ignores the sugary sweet smell that surrounds his brother. That's what disease smells like, sweet and sour, a heavy stench that can almost be tasted. Nothing can get rid of it. Despite being washed every day, the odor seems to be seeping out of the pores of his waxy-looking skin. His breath in the morning is the worst, letting out that same smell with something more, something organic, wet. But Sam is used to it by now.

“Hey, Dean,” he greats softly, sitting on the side of the bed.

Of course, Dean doesn’t acknowledge his presence. He’s positioned on his side, a pillow propping up the left side of his back, another tucked between his legs. He has to be moved every two hours to prevent bed sores. It’s good for the blood flow and prevents his muscles from stiffening.

Dean’s eyes are half closed. It’s like they can’t close or open completely. His mouth is slightly open too, he snores softly. Sometimes, if Sam squints his eyes a little, he can almost make himself believe his brother is only sleeping. He can get over the thin, white face, the chapped lips, the fact that Dean looks so young, barely out of his teenage years. Now that his hair is growing, it’s pale and soft, almost two centimeters now. The scars on his scalp are visible and hairless. The doctor says hair won't grow back there.

“So, what? You needed a little attention?” Sam whispers, taking Dean’s hand between his. It’s cold and damp, lax. “Got Joseph to take out the feeding tube? You hate it, I know. Still, it would be better for you, Dean. Get some meat on those bones.”

Sam speaks to his brother for a little while, tells him about his job, about Rose’s dying husband, about a documentary he listened to on the radio at work. “So those silver foxes, they're tamed. You can have one as a pet. Can you believe that?”

Slowly, the room gets brighter and the noise in Dean's wing gets louder, like the whole building is waking up. The shift change is getting close. Sam always waits for the day staff to make their first patient check-up before giving Dean his sponge bath. Sam has discovered that, if he doesn’t follow the schedule he's devised for himself, the days pass so slowly he can almost feel the seconds ticking by. 

Sam takes care of his brother, in every aspect possible. He inquires about Dean’s vital signs as soon as the nurse has taken them, then asks for the supplies he needs to give his brother his bath. 

“Just buzz me when you're done so I can help you change the sheets,” Loren says softly. “And don’t forget, if you notice any red spots or-“

“Yeah, I’ll call you.”

Lauren rolls her eyes. She’s a nice, middle-aged woman who always speaks in a low, soothing voice. Sam likes her.

“I tend to repeat myself, don't I?” she asks. “Job conditioning.”

“No, it’s alright.”

It is. Sam’s not a nurse, more of a _how-to-patch-up-my-bleeding-brother-and-father_ specialist. He’s grateful for the understanding everyone here seems to have. In the beginning, the staff had been somewhat reluctant to teach him how to care for Dean, but as the days went by and they realized Sam wasn’t going to give it up, some of them began to show him the proper way. The same had happened when Dean received his first physiotherapist visit. Sam had stood there, in silence, and had watched every move, every exercise done to Dean. Then he had asked questions. Physical therapy with comatose patients is essential to prevent the formation of blood clots and muscle atrophy. Dean has a session three times a week with a therapist, but Sam has been told he can do it up to once a day if he wants to.

Sam does it once a day. 

As usual, he starts by giving Dean his bath with careful, soft motions. When he’s manhandled, Dean will sometimes groan or whine, but those are only reflexes, just like he will sometimes tense a leg or an arm when Sam makes him do his exercises.

It goes smoothly that morning. Sam concentrates on the motions instead of the fact that Dean would be mortified by most of this if he was aware of what was happening to him, especially when Sam changes his diaper, cleaning his genital area. The diaper is only there as a precaution. Since Dean is mostly fed with an I.V. solution, he rarely has bowel movements, but Sam doesn’t duck this part of his brother's care either. The mere idea that his brother is reduced to incontinence is enough to make him forget about the smell and the instinctive repulsion he feels. Dean would hate this so much. Maybe he does, maybe he has some kind of awareness of his surroundings and his state, of what is being done to him. That’s why Sam treats him with all the respect and affection he can manage. He speaks to Dean constantly while he gives him his bath, speaking to him like Dean might answer at any second, not in that baby voice a couple of the nurses sometimes use.

When Dean is all clean and changed into a fresh hospital gown, Sam shaves him. He uses an electric razor and only does it once every other day. Dean had never been fond of a close shave. That morning, he has to clip Dean’s fingernails. The toenails can wait.

By the time Sam is done, it’s almost ten o’clock. Lauren comes back with a change of sheets and helps him position Dean in a semi-sitting position. Sam never does the physical therapy exercises right after the bath. “He maybe not be able to express it, but the exercises are very tiring for him, just as his sponge bath is or any medical procedure,” Dr. Murphy had explained to Sam. “Better to let him rest between each.”

It makes sense.

The rest of the morning goes as smoothly. Sam has gotten into the habit of reading aloud to Dean, making a point of choosing stuff he knows his brother would like, funny or strange newspaper articles, car and weapon magazines. There's a small TV in the room, but Sam reserves it for the evenings or late afternoon. Daytime TV is boring as hell, as his brother –dying of a heart condition at the time- had once pointed out. When they watch it, Sam comments on everything he sees and, sometimes, he can hear Dean’s answers in his head.

He wonders if that's really healthy.

When noon comes that day, Sam takes a break. Not that it matters because. Dean doesn’t eat three meals a day. But Sam is more comfortable with this routine. He goes down to the cafeteria and eats something even though he isn’t hungry most of the time. During his last visit, Bobby had pointed out that he had lost some weight. “Makin’ yourself sick ain’t gonna help your brother,” he’d pointed out. 

As he is most of the time, Bobby is right. Sam has already lost some muscle mass because he doesn’t get as much physical exercises as he did before. He can’t afford to let himself go if he wants to be there for Dean.

The cafeteria is serving meatloaf today. The smell alone is enough to make Sam’s stomach churn. He picks a salad instead, but buys a pack of peanut butter cookies to add a few more calories. 

He eats by himself, reading the Huffington Post on his laptop, chewing each mouthful slowly. He allows himself forty five minutes and tries to stick to it. Still, he can’t help but check to make sure his cellphone is in his pocket a couple of times, just in case. It’s getting close to an obsession, he knows. Sometimes, he wakes up at night, covered in sweat, blindingly grabbing for his phone. What if he has missed a call? What if he forgot to charge the battery and something has happened to Dean…

God, Dean would make so much fun of him if he knew, calling it OCD…

There, right then, as he’s sitting alone in the cafeteria, it passes through him, a deep, violent wave of pain, physical and visceral. Sam’s eyes fill with tears and his chest constricts. He never knows when it’s going to happen, but it’s just as painful every single time.

How much he misses Dean. Every single thing about him, even his stubbornness and his freaking carelessness concerning his own well-being. His loyalty to John, his music, his bad eating habits and his womanizing.

Everything. Sam wants everything back. He wants his big brother.

Sam tries to keep his emotions under control. He wipes at his eyes, swallows his mouthful of tasteless cookie with some water and closes his laptop. 

He still has five minutes left. He takes the time to bring his plate back and makes a bathroom stop. By the time he’s in the elevator, he’s shoved his sorrow deep down inside his mind to a place where it doesn’t really hurt anymore –hey, Dean isn’t the only Winchester able to do so. Besides, Sam tells himself stubbornly, having his own selfish breakdown won’t help his brother. The nurses have settled Dean on his side again while Sam had been eating. His brother looks almost peaceful, facing the door, his hands tucked together like a small child would do. This is strange, Sam thinks distractedly. Usually, they’re separated, one near his head, the other tucked against his body.

“Hey Dean, m’back,” Sam greets as he always does.

Dean blinks.

_Dean blinks at him._

Sam closes his eyes for a second. It happens, sometimes –it’s a symptom common to people who are close to coma patients. They want so much to see a movement, to hear a noise, that they sometimes hallucinate it.

Sam opens his eyes and stops breathing.

Dean’s right hand is moving slowly, the fingers curling into a loose fist. His eyes are open, staring into nothingness, but staring still.

“God. Dean.” Sam chokes.

Dean opens his mouth and licks his lips.

Sam doesn’t even think about ringing the bell. He runs back into the corridor and calls a nurse in a loud, panicked voice.


	5. Chapter 5

“I don’t understand.” Sam repeats for what seems to be the hundredth time in less than twenty-four hours.

“We can’t be sure of anything.”

“You're the medical professionals, damn it!”

Sam paces in the room reserved for doctors on the Neurological Wing. He knows he sounds aggressive, but he can’t help it. He brushes his bangs away from his face and tries to take a couple of deep breaths. Dr. Murphy looks at him calmly.

“I know how frustrating it is, but you must be patient.”

“But he’s not in a coma anymore, is he? Damn it, he moved, he… grunted, his eyes are wide open and…”

“He’s awake, in a way.”

After several hours of testing and a visit from a neurological colleague from another hospital, this is all Murphy can say to Sam. His brother’s awake, in a way. His silent, staring into nothingness brother. Drooling, shaking his head from left to right. Moaning like a wounded animal. This is the Dean who has come back to Sam.

“Sam, sit down,” Murphy says softly. 

And because he’s tired as hell, confused and scared out of his mind, Sam takes a seat.

“I’ve warned you about severe neurological damage from the very beginning. I’ve always been honest about that.”

“I know. S’just…” Sam dismisses that chain of thoughts with a vague hand motion.

“It’s still too early to tell what the long-term consequences will be. Dean has just awoken from a deep coma. His condition will most probably improve over the next few days.”

Murphy must have seen the light of hope in Sam’s eyes because he feels the need to add quickly, “Improvement is relative. I mean, the neurological damage is there and it’s severe, but we can’t judge a patient’s condition so soon after he awakens from a coma. Dean will be closely monitored for his neurological progress. We’ll do some more tests, an electroencephalogram, a head scan, everything that’s standard procedure for this kind of case. But none of it will give us a definite answer, only time.”

“Does he realize I’m there with him?”

“I personally think he does, but what does it change either way? You've spent the last two months caring for him and talking to him. Listen, I know you want answers, but this is the best I can do at the moment. Still, remember when he was first admitted. I was certain he wouldn’t get through the night. And then I told you he wouldn’t wake up, so I guess all of this is a sign that Dean has a way of defying the prognosis.”

“He does…” Sam smiles sadly. 

“Now you should be with him, not with me. The fact that he’s awake, even if we don’t know to what extent, is close to what we call a freaking miracle in my profession.”

::: :::

Sam walks back into Dean’s room. A nurse is with him. It seems as though there is always someone with him ever since yesterday, performing some new test. 

This time, the young woman is holding a simple pen at Dean’s eye level and speaking to him gently. “You want to try and grab the pen for me, Dean? I know you can do it. Come on.”

Dean doesn’t react at all. His eyes move slowly from left to right like they can’t fix on anything. His hands lay lifeless over the sheets. There is a fine trickle of saliva sliding down his chin.

“Stop it,” Sam says, surprising himself with how harsh he sounds.

The nurse turns toward him. Her name is Leila, or Lisa, Sam can’t remember. “It’s a simple neurological test, Mr. Smith. A way to evaluate your brother’s reactions.”

“What if… What if he understands what you mean, but just can’t get his body to work the way he wants? Don’t you think it’s frustrating for him?” Sam snaps, getting Leila/Lisa to tense all over.

“I’m sorry, it’s not meant to frustrate him.” She replies.

The young nurse probably thinks Sam is pretty close to losing his temper, and maybe she’s right. Maybe he is. He hasn’t slept at all during the last twenty-four hours, hasn't been to work, and hasn’t left the hospital at all.

It’s unfair to take it off on the staff here. Everybody is thrilled that Dean is waking up. Everybody’s been so nice to him – to both of them, really.

Sam takes a deep breath in and exhales through his nostrils.

“I… I know. I’m sorry. M’just tired.”

The nurse smiles brightly at him. “It’s understandable. But, just so you know, we’ll try to get him to drink some water again in about an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

Sam sighs and sits slowly on his chair near the bed. Dean has lowered his eyes and is grimacing, a soft, whining noise vibrating in his throat. “What is it, Dean? Are you uncomfortable?” he asks nervously, bending toward his brother. “Fuck, I hate this. No being able to tell what’s going on with him.”

“We can try and settle him in another position?” Leila/Lisa suggests, lowering the bed rails.

“Yeah, okay.”

It’s an all new game now that Dean is awake. He tenses as soon as someone tries to touch him, as if he wants to fight it, but can’t gather the energy. His face becomes bright red and his features grimace and relax in quick succession. When they had settled him at around one o’clock last night, big tears had slid down his cheeks and Sam had found to necessary to leave the room for a few minutes, overwhelmed by the situation.

This time, Sam eases him into it as much as possible, speaking to him in a murmur, just coaxing, simple words to try and ground him. He still resists, though, however Sam and the nurse try to make this easier for him. A loud groan suddenly rips from his throat and he closes his eyes tightly when Sam finally succeeds in placing the pillow between his legs.

“Sorry, m’so sorry, Dean, I don’t mean to hurt you,” Sam babbles, bending toward his brother and pressing a kiss at the junction of his forehead and hairline.

The gesture shocks him. Of course, he’s made a point of touching Dean as much as possible, grabbing his hand, rubbing his back, massaging his lax legs and arms for the past two months, but this, this is a display of affection that a parent makes toward a child. 

Does Sam now consider Dean a child? The helpless, confused, almost catatonic man in this bed is Dean Winchester, his badass big brother. 

He’s there, somewhere.

Sam knows. Whatever’s left of him, is in there, holding onto life fiercely. Sam has no right to treat him as a child.

The kiss, nevertheless, seems to have a calming effect on Dean. He stops grimacing and blinks lazily into nothingness. He’s now lying on his side, perfectly still, and while the nurse covers him with the blankets to his chin, he sighs deeply.

It’s heartbreaking.

“I have… I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” Sam mumbles.

He all but runs out of the room and down the nearest staircase. Once he's alone, Sam lets himself lean against the wall and slides slowly to the floor. “Fuck,” he hiccups, then bursts out crying into the crook of his elbow. He doesn’t know how long he stays that way, but the crying fit doesn’t relieve him, not a bit. He calls for his big brother between sobs, wishing, wanting to have Dean back so much it hurts. Everywhere. He wants Dean to smile cockily at him and make some stupid joke. He wants Dean to look at him with concern, grabbing his face, making sure he isn’t hurt. He wants to make everything better and he just can’t.

He can’t.

Even though Sam had heard the doctors and specialists tell him so many times that Dean would suffer severe brain damage, he'd never let himself believe it, not really. He’d always relied on Dean’s stubbornness and will to live to short-circuit every prognosis. Dean had been close to death more than once and he'd always gotten through it because Dean… Dean is to Sam what John was to Dean: a giant, somebody who can brush up against death without even blinking, without ever fearing for his life.

Sam wipes his nose on the sleeve of his shirt, hiccups one last time and takes his cellphone out. He hasn’t called Bobby yet, had told himself that he had all kinds of good reasons not to do so. He can’t lie to himself anymore. If he wants to keep going, if he wants to keep doing what’s best for Dean, he needs to be honest with himself.

“Sam? What’s up?” is how Bobby answers halfway through the first ring.

“Dean is awake,” Sam rasps, bracing himself for Bobby’s surprise and barrage of questions.

No need, though. There is a pause at the other end of the line, then Bobby asks softly. “How is he?”

“Not… Not that good. He’s… they don’t know… He…”

Sam pauses to swallow. The facts. He’s always been good with facts. “He doesn’t talk, doesn’t react to my voice, and barely moves on his own. He doesn't seem able to drink, or eat for that matter. All he does is make noises like… like a baby would make.”

“When did he wake up?”

“Yesterday.”

“It’s still early. He needs time,” Bobby states cautiously.

“That’s what everybody’s saying,” Sam murmurs. “But they also say that the brain damage is severe.”

Sam chokes on that last word and it takes all of his will not to burst out crying again.

“I’m coming, boy,” Bobby says.

“No.”

“Sam.”

“I… That’s why I didn’t call you earlier, Bobby. I don’t want you here for now. It’s not about you, you gotta understand that. Dean is… I don’t want you to see him like this. Dean wouldn’t want to see him like this.”

A little more time. Sam knows that even if he prepares Bobby as much as he can, their friend will be shocked to see Dean in his current condition. It may be selfish, but Sam isn’t sure he can handle Bobby's emotions on top of his own.

“What do you suggest?” Bobby finally asks in a voice even gruffer than usual.

“A little time? I mean, he’s only just woken up… He’s going to improve, he’s…”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“A week, Bobby,” Sam pleads. “Give us a week. This is something I need to work out, it's about my own fucking issues.”

“You’re not alone, Sam.”

“I know.”

The sudden softness in Bobby’s tone tells Sam he’s going to give him the time he's asking for. He breathes a little easier.

::: :::

Dean is asleep when Sam comes back in the room. After checking with the staff that they’ll keep an eye on him (he knows they will, he just can’t help himself) Sam decides to go back to Hannah’s Shelter to take a shower and put on clean clothes. On his way there, he calls work to say he won’t be able to make it. It’s the second shift he’s missed and he wonders what he'll do if he gets fired. He only has a little money saved and there is no way he can compromise his identity with a fake credit card while he stays in Peoria. The worst thing that could happen right now is getting caught by the authorities and being unable to take care of Dean.

Frank, the handyman at the office, is the one Sam has to talk to. He’s a fifty-something year old guy, quiet and nice, with what’s left of an Australian accent.

“You’re putting me in a difficult situation, Sam.”

“I know. I’m… It’s a personal issue…”

“Sam. I know. I mean, you don’t have to say anything for people to realize you’re carrying some kind of burden. That’s why I hired you in the first place, because you seemed like you really needed this job.”

Sam swallows loudly. Damn it, he just can’t keep his emotions under control right now.

“I’mma cover for you again, alright?” Frank goes on. “But you gotta give me a little more to go on here. Sam sighs. He can’t afford to lose his job. 

He spots an empty bench on the sidewalk, just in front of the park he cuts through every day to get to the hospital, and sits on it –collapses would be a better word. He’s so tired suddenly. “My… my brother has been in a coma for two months,” he whispers.

“Jesus, Sam,” Frank breathes out.

“And he, uh… woke up yesterday. He’s… He’s in bad shape. I’m the only one he’s got. I can’t leave him right now.”

“Of course you can’t. S’okay, don’t worry about it.”

Sam is so incredibly grateful he starts shaking. Since he only works four nights a week, this one was his last before a three day break. Frank tells him to call if he thinks he won’t be able to make it in for his next shift. Through his constricted throat, Sam succeeds in thanking the man.

::: :::

Dean’s grunts are what wake Sam up. He blinks and looks at his watch. It’s almost midnight. Dean’s been sleeping for the last two hours.

“Dean, it’s okay,” Sam rasps, ignoring his sore muscles to turn on the bedside lamp. He discovers his brother all tangled up in the sheets, his I.V. line caught around his wrist, in danger of being torn off. Dean’s upper body has slid down the bed and his head is pressing against the side rails. His face his beet red, his eyes open wide.

“Hey, what did you do?” Sam whispers, untangling the thin plastic tube of the I.V. “You were uncomfortable? You did this all on your own?”

While talking, Sam gently lowers the sheets to set them right. Dean doesn’t look at him, but he wines, a thin, high-pitched noise so un-Dean like it’s hard to believe he’s making it.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, Dean, I’m sorry.” Sam babbles, taking his brother’s thin shoulders between his hands to position him in the middle of the bed.

It doesn’t seem to do any good. Dean grunts again, licking his chapped lips compulsively.

“I know you’re thirsty, but you won’t drink, dude. Wait, we’ll try the sponge again.”

Dean apparently has trouble swallowing. Dr. Murphy doesn’t know if it’s a consequence of the brain damage or if he just has to learn to do it again but, in the meantime, nothing goes past his throat. He still has the reflex, though, because even though he drools a lot, he’ll sometimes succeed in swallowing a little saliva. 

In the meantime, the staff has to keep his mouth hydrated with a small sponge in the shape of a toothbrush. Dean doesn’t like it, but doesn’t really fight it. 

Sam fills a glass of water in the bathroom and grabs a new sponge from the table. He wets it and bends over his brother. “Dean, can you look at me? Dean, come on. I just… I just want you to understand I’m trying to make it better, okay?”

Of course, Dean doesn’t react to his words. When the sponge brushes against his lips, however, instead of letting his mouth go slack, he very slowly opens it.

Sam doesn’t let his surprise ruin this delicate moment and presses the sponge on Dean’s tongue. There is a moment when something in his brother seems to shift, a certain way his features tense, not from pain, but the way they used to when Dean was thinking hard about something. Suddenly, his mouth closes on the sponge.

“Dean…” Sam whispers, unable to move. Then he feels it, the sucking motion. Dean is sucking the water off the sponge, humming all the while. He grunts, then swallows, letting his mouth go slack again.

“Fuck. You’re thirsty, Dean. I know man, I know, let me give you some more.”

Sam feels excited like a little kid. Four times in a row, Dean repeats the same action, sucking the water off the sponge and humming. The last time, he does it slower. His eyelids begin to droop. He seems exhausted. Sam lets him finish and puts the water away.

Dean yawns and hums under his breath.

“So, that was good, right?” Sam asks softly, taking Dean’s hand.

His brother doesn’t tense this time, but he lets out a long, hiccupping sigh so full of relief it brings Sam close to tears all over again.

“You’re coming back,” Sam states calmly. “You take your time, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean is already dozing and Sam finds himself smiling like an idiot. It feels so good to smile, to really smile for a worthwhile reason.

::: :::

Over the next five days, Dean’s only improvement is the fact that he can hydrate himself. The sponge stick isn’t enough, but drinking from a glass turns out to be too difficult. A straw turns out to be the answer. One nurse tells Sam that Dean takes to it so easily because drinking from a straw isn’t that different from the suction reflex present in babies. Sam nods and tries not to show how hurtful it is for him to hear this.

Dean sleeps a lot. When he’s awake, he doesn’t move much on his own, only when he seems really uncomfortable. Even then, he’ll more often than not cry or grunt than try to move. He shows resistance whenever he’s manhandled by the nursing staff or the physical therapists. He’s too weak for it to really matter. He can’t lock his muscles or apply any real opposition to it, but he does shows signs of distress and grimaces a lot, whatever is done to him. One of the therapists points out that Dean seems more pliant when Sam is the one to move or touch him, but Sam isn’t ready to let himself believe it. Dean doesn’t react to his voice –he doesn’t react to anyone’s voice for that matter- and never looks at him. Dr. Murphy calls the way Dean’s gaze seems to avoid any eye-to-eye contact an autism-like symptom because he does it with intent, often turning his head or lowering his eyes. It’s good news, something that indicates Dean may be more “present” than he lets on. Sam doesn’t get what's so great about it. Isn’t autism about shielding oneself away from the outside world? And how can Dean develop something that’s a congenital state?

 _Autism-like_ is the key word here, Dr. Murphy points out. Sometimes, Sam doubts that the neurologist has any idea of Dean’s real mental and physical state.

Dean can sit, for short periods of time, in one of those geriatric chairs that offers full support and is equipped with a sliding table in the front to prevent any falls. After half an hour, though, he’ll start grunting and shaking from exhaustion. It's still important to get in the chair at least twice a day, but it's so hard, seeing the distress in his eyes. Sometimes it feels like torture.

Sam decides not to go back to work. Frank tells him to call if he ever changes his mind. His kindness touches Sam. Dean does sleep at night, but he wakes up every hour or so and Sam can’t bring himself to leave him for long periods of time. He practically lives at the hospital at this point. He goes back to Hannah’s Shelter during the day to nap because the hospital staff is more numerous and he knows Dean will be watched more closely. The people at the shelter don’t ask a lot of question, given Sam’s avoidance of them. 

On October 21, Alex Murphy asks to see Sam alone. Sam has just finished with Dean’s sponge bath and he’s already exhausted. He doesn’t want to hear what the doctor wants to tell him: it’s rarely good news these days. Still, he follows and sits in silence, listens to Murphy’s monologue about Dean’s weakness and the fact that he still refuses to eat anything. They’ve tried him on solid food every day since he woke up: jellos and soups and puree. Dean just won’t open his mouth, and if he does involuntarily, he lets the food slip out without making any effort to swallow it. The thick protein milk they’ve tried didn’t have any more success.

“So, what are you saying?” Sam asks, rubbing at his irritated eyes.

“He’s weak. I.V hyperalimentation isn’t enough for him now that he’s awake. His last blood test results weren't very good.”

“So? What do we do?”

“We can always try the gastric tube again. We night have better results now than we did when he was in a coma, but Sam…”Murphy clears his throat and bends forward, his gaze intent and serious. “Having a tube down his nose is going to be extremely uncomfortable for him. If Dean tries to fight it, it won’t be pretty.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Sam asks again, waiting for an answer because hell, he’s not the doctor here.

“It’s… Sam. Maybe… maybe Dean just wants to let go.” Murphy’s voice is barely a whisper.

Sam blinks and lets the words sink in. The realization that Murphy is actually suggesting to let Dean waste away is so shocking for him it cuts his breath short and makes his heart pound hard in his chest.

“What?”

“Sam, Dean is-“

Sam stands up abruptly. “You don’t know anything about my brother. If anyone can heal from this, it’s him. He’s not going to just… give up. I need him, he knows that!”

Sam gets out of the office without looking back, heading straight for the elevator. Fuck, he’s just reacted like a spoiled kid, like an egotistical brat, wishing Dean back because Sam can’t face the rest of his life alone.

What would Dean say if he could talk?

 _It’s not about me,_ Sam thinks fiercely. _It’s about Dean. He wouldn’t give up on me, he never has._

Maybe it doesn’t make sense, no sense at all, but Sam is not about to let Dean drift away without fighting. When the elevator door opens on the hospital lobby, Sam heads outside with long strides, knowing perfectly well where to go.

::: :::

“Okay, Dean, here’s the deal,” Sam says when he comes back into his brother’s room half an hour later. 

He puts the paper bag on the rolling table along with the chocolate milkshake. The room immediately begins to smell like the kitchen of a fast food restaurant and grease stains appear on the bag.

Dean is awake. He turns his head slowly, oh so slowly, away from Sam.

Sam doesn’t even flinch. He raises the head of Dean’s bed until he’s in a sitting position. Dean grunts softly. Sam grabs a towel from the pile on the bedside table and arranges it on his brother’s chest so that he won’t get food stains on his hospital gown. 

“I know you’re in there somewhere,” Sam tells his brother, face only an inch away from Dean’s. “Listen, man, I know it’s hard, I know you’re doing the best you can, but it’s not enough. If you don’t eat, they’ll slide a tube down your nose and into your stomach to feed you and trust me, it won’t be fun. Dr. Murphy says maybe you just want to let go but… I don’t believe that. You woke up even though every fucking specialist said you wouldn’t. I’m not giving up on you.”

Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t show any sign that he's actually heard Sam’s speech. Without waiting any further, Sam lowers the bedrail and sits next to him, dragging the table closer. He gets the food out of the bag along with the plasticware. 

“I got you a cheeseburger, extra onions, and some chili cheese fries,” Sam explains as he starts cutting the hamburger into tiny bits. “I figured, why would you make the effort to eat some lame jello or puree?”

Still no movement on Dean’s part, but a trickle of saliva starts its way down his chin. Maybe the smell makes his mouth water? It would be too easy, Sam thinks. Nevertheless, he takes the spoon and slides a small piece of meat and bread onto it, then brings it to Dean’s mouth.

“Come on, dude. Your favorite. Dean, it’s… Please, just try it.”

Dean’s nostrils dilate suddenly. He makes a low grunting sound and his lips part slightly.

He licks them and grunts again.

 _Can’t be this simple, can it?_ Sam is shaking from the rush of adrenaline that invades his body. He can’t even tone down his excitement.

“It’s right here, Dean,” he says, voice as calm as he can manage. “Come on. I know you can do it. You can.”

A few seconds pass, seeming like an eternity to Sam.

Then it happens. Dean grunts long and low and opens his mouth.

Sam freezes for a second before slowly pushing the spoon in, careful not to go too deep, letting the curved plastic rest on Dean’s tongue.

Dean’s nostrils quiver again. He frowns, then closes his mouth on the spoon.

Sam slides it out, empty of its contents.

 _Come on, you gotta chew. You gotta swallow_ , he prays silently.

Dean hums through his closed lips. His eyes open wide, their green color catching the light from the window.

He starts chewing, very slowly at first, up the pace. Sam is paralyzed, his heart hammering so hart in his ears it feels like the drums are going to burst from the pressure.

Dean swallows, opens his mouth again, and grunts somewhat impatiently. 

Sam bursts out laughing. Strangely, it sounds like a sob. He gets another spoonful to his brother’s watering mouth. “There you go, Dean.” Dean’s mouth closes on it quicker this time. He shuts his eyes briefly and hums softly before he starts chewing. He looks blissed. 

“I knew I would get you with this,” Sam laughs, shaking all over. “So? Me pleading didn’t do shit but a freaking cheeseburger? Dude, you’re so predictable.”

Sam gathers a small portion of chili cheese fries on the spoon, and then he feels it. Dean’s gaze on him, just visible from the corner of his eyes. Sam tries to resist but he has to see, has to see if it's real or just an illusion.

He looks back. For a second, the brothers stare at each other. Sam sees recognition and confusion in Dean’s eyes. He sees fear, and frustration, and hunger. He sees the will to live.

Then it’s gone. Dean blushes red and lowers his eyes.

Sam feeds him the junk food he got for him, a strong sensation of happiness and hope making him feel light headed. Soon enough, he’ll buzz one of the nurses to show them that Dean can indeed eat, but for now, he wants to keep this moment for himself.

Just the two of them, like it always has been, in a way.


	6. Chapter 6

_Peoria, November 15_

When Sam arrives in Dean’s room, his brother is sitting in his bed, head turned toward the window. Today is gonna be a good day, Sam can tell, because Dean is humming softly. Sam steps closer silently, tries to guess what song it is today.

Metallica’s _For Whom the Bell Tolls._ It’s always been one of Dean and Dad’s favorites. Sam listens for a few more seconds before clearing his throat. Dean doesn’t like to be surprised.

“Hey, Dean,” he says, putting the coffee tray on the table.

Dean stops humming, his upper body tenses, then he slowly turns his head. He catches Sam’s gaze and lowers his, smiling shyly as a deep blush creeps up his face. Then, he visibly catches the smell of fresh coffee because he lets out an impatient groan and opens his mouth.

“I always wonder if you smile because I’m here or because I bring the caffeine. Anyway, still too hot so, suck it up, dude, we’re starting with the shaving this morning.”

Dean tilts his head slowly from left to right. His hands grip the sheets in a lax, but nervous way. Sam can see his feet kick under the blanket. All those signs, Sam is learning to interpret them. The fact that he’s sitting and moving that much means he’s been awake for a while. Sam has to hurry. Dean can’t last much more than two hours before he tires himself out. 

Sam takes the lid off the Styrofoam cup and adds a little cold water to the steaming beverage. Dean drinks with a straw. The last thing Sam wants is for his brother to burn himself and, since Dean has always liked his coffee black…

While he’s busy fetching the electric razor from the bedside table, Joseph enters the room to give him his night report. “He needed a change around five this morning. Didn’t go back to sleep after that,” the man explains.

They have a short conversation about Dean’s bowel movement. It’s an issue since his intestines are having trouble working actively again now that he's begun to eat. Sam doesn’t think about how degrading Dean would find this and listens carefully. Anything that causes discomfort to his brother is an issue Sam wants to help solve. Dean’s last stomach ache had him whimpering like a wounded animal, curled in on himself in a tight ball while tears poured down his cheeks. 

Sam hates seeing his brother suffer.

While they talk, Dean grunts again, looking in their direction without actually raising his eyes, but it’s enough to have Sam’s attention.

“I better shave him now, he wants his morning coffee.”

“This I totally understand, Dean,” Joseph agrees, patting Dean’s bed. “Have a good day, man.”

Dean doesn’t like anyone to touch him besides Sam. It makes the constant care he needs a whole lot more complicated if Sam isn’t right there with him. Dean lets the nurses and physical therapist touch him, but only after several minutes of a slow, progressive approach. Luckily, Sam is almost constantly present. Since he has started eating, Dean sleeps better at night and Sam has the luxury of going back to the shelter to sleep, in a real bed, from eleven to six. 

Sam lowers the bed rail and sits next to Dean. Realizing that he isn’t any closer to getting his coffee, Dean turns his head away from Sam and huffs. Sam smiles – this is so very Dean, right here. He huffs like he used to roll his eyes at Sam any time he was exasperated.

“Come on, it will only take five minutes,” Sam coos, taking Dean’s chin between his fingers and turning his head in the right position. “You’re going to spend your day trying to scratch at your stubble if we don’t do this.”

Sam settles the head of the bed at a ninety degree angle and presses softly on Dean’s shoulders until he lets himself lean back against it. As soon as he hears the faint buzzing noise of the razor, Dean goes very still and lets Sam do the job. The stubble he used to like so much just seems to irritate him now and Sam has to shave him every morning. He knows he’d do a better job with a real razor and some shaving cream, but he’s too afraid of cutting him to try it.

Dean looks at Sam a couple of times while he gets shaved. It never lasts long, but it’s great progress. Just like with the touching, Dean will only do this with his brother. He’ll blush and even moan every time, like it requires a real physical effort for him, but he still does it a little more each day.

When Sam is done, he settles a clean towel on Dean’s chest and pulls the rolling table closer. Dean knows what that means. His mouth opens, flooded with saliva, and his nostrils flare.

Sam tastes the coffee, finding it a little more than lukewarm, and puts the straw in it.

“Okay, here we go, but slowly, alright?”

Dean’s mouth closes on the straw and he drinks avidly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Sam pulls the straw out of his mouth even though Dean shakes his head quickly and groans. He tends to choke if he drinks too fast and he has trouble setting a slower pace.

“In a second,” Sam tells him. “Dude, you’re lucky I get you one each morning. The nutritionist said it wasn’t so good for you. Try to enjoy it a little more.”

Dean huffs in response, like he wants Sam to know what he thinks about the advice of a nutritionist, and Sam bursts out laughing, startling him.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” Sam puts a hand on Dean’s lean arm and rubs it softly. “Today is an important day. Bobby is coming to visit. He hasn’t seen you since you woke up.” Sam adds, trying to hide his nervousness.

Dean doesn’t react in any way other than opening his mouth for the straw.

“Yeah, of course, first things first,” Sam agrees, smiling, before he presents the straw to Dean again.

::: :::

It’s almost ten in the morning when Bobby calls Sam’s cellphone to tell him he’s in the lobby. Sam feels a new surge of nervousness coursing through his veins. He’s a little scared he may have been too harsh with the older hunter the day after Dean woke up, asking him not to come. After a couple of days, he’d called back to tell Bobby it was alright if he wanted to visit, but the other man had said he couldn’t make it, that he was working a hunt with a guy named Rufus Turner and didn’t know when it would be over. He had called back a couple of times to get news on Dean's progress, but kept the conversation short and seemed worried.

Dean dozes off after his morning sponge bath, dressed in clean pajamas. It’s easier to dress him since they took out the catheter. Dean wasn’t tolerating it well and was starting a new bladder infection when the decision had been made. The diapers do the job, although the stench of urine sticks to the room now and the possibility of developing bed sores is more likely.

“Dean, you wanna sit up so you can show the old man how much progress you’ve made?” Sam asks, shaking Dean’s shoulder lightly.

Dean gasps awake and, as usual, quickly scans the room, his eye movements rapid and nervous. Once he sees Sam, he relaxes gradually and lets his brother take him by the hands to sit him up, yawning all the while. Sam then grabs his feet and turns him, allowing his legs to dangle from the side of the bed. Dean doesn’t fight, just stays still, his back hunched forward, a trickle of saliva making its way from his lower lip to his pajama pants.

Dean’s physical state is hard to evaluate because of his general weakness. Apparently, the weakness is slightly more prevalent on the left side of his body, but it’s not enough to worry Dr. Murphy. The physical therapists have the same opinion. It’s hard to work with Dean, now that he’s conscious and more present. Nathalie, the one who’s in charge of Dean’s file, had tried to get him to stand up for the first time four days ago. Dean had followed her lead until he was on his feet, then he had panicked, shaking so badly that Natalie had to sit him down immediately. “He’s holding himself when he sits,” she had told Sam. “I don’t know if the problem is he can’t stand up or if he’s just scared to do so. We’ll have to wait until he regains more strength before we try it again.”

Whenever Dean sits on the side of the bed, Sam stays very close, just to be sure his brother doesn’t fall down. Sometimes, he transitions from wide awake to drowsy in a matter of seconds. 

This morning, though, he looks steady enough. Sam puts his slippers on. They are those ugly things with non-skid soles, their only purpose being to make the switch from the bed to the orthopedic chair easier.

“Hey boys.”

Sam turns his head away from Dean, still holding him by the waist. “Hey, Bobby.” 

The older hunter seems like he’s aged several years since their last encounter. He has dark circles under his eyes, his features are tense and his stance less assured than usual. “Bobby’s here, Dean,” Sam tells his brother. 

Dean lifts his head slowly, but keeps his eyes lowered. 

“Dean, how are you doing?” Bobby drags a chair near the bed and Sam can see the effort he makes not to show shock or surprise. It’s one thing, seeing Dean in a deep comatose state. It’s another game entirely to look at him now. Sam understands this all too well. Dean unconscious leaves the hope of a man who could wake up the same as he's always been, a man who has been a hunter most of his life, who's loud and driven and stubborn. 

Now, Sam knows how child-like his brother appears, drooling on his thighs, expressing himself with moans and groans, looking constantly nervous and intimidated. Sam has seen the progress Dean has made in the last three weeks. He doesn’t let his brother’s current condition affect him, just keeps going through the motions of everyday care, attentive to any small new gesture or facial expression. Each change in his brother's state tells him that, even though Dean has a long way to go, he isn’t stuck like this, he's making progress.

“He’s doing better, Bobby,” Sam states as confidently as he can.   
“Can he… can he hear me?”

“Yes, but he’s a little shy, aren’t you, Dean?”

Dean reacts mostly to Sam’s tone of voice when he huffs and shakes his head without intent. Still, it’s something.

“Glad to have you back, boy,” Bobby murmurs, patting Dean’s thigh. 

Dean tenses and tries to get away. Sam gets a hold of him just before he falls backward on the mattress.

“Come on, dude, it’s Bobby. As a matter of fact, he’s going to help me lift you into your chair, so you better get used to it.”

Bobby stands up nervously, his cap in his hands. “Sam, I’m not sure I can.”

“It’s easy,” Sam tells him without missing a beat. “He practically does it himself.”

Which is far from the truth, but a little positive reinforcement never hurt anyone.

Sam gets the orthopedic chair as close as he can to the bed and tells Bobby to hold Dean by the arm and waist. Dean isn’t happy about it, but he calms down when Sam does the same thing. Once he's standing, Dean’s eyes widen and he whines. He’s scared of being upright. 

“Just make him rotate on his feet,” Sam instructs.

Dean is so light now. His bones can be felt through the cotton of his pajamas. Sam and Bobby practically lift him off the floor to turn him and sit him carefully on the chair. As soon as it’s done, Dean sighs loudly and closes his eyes.

“He’s tired,” Sam says. “Big morning.”

He puts a flannel hospital sheet over Dean’s legs and slides the chair’s table in place so that his brother can’t fall out. Bobby sits back when Sam situates himself on the bed. The old hunter’s gaze can’t seem to leave Dean. “Damn it, Sam, it’s really hard to see him like this.” He finally whispers.

“He’s making progress every day,” Sam states. He doesn’t like it when people talk about Dean like he isn’t right there with them.

Bobby seems to realize this because he clears his throat and tries to pull himself together.

“So, Sam, how are you holding up?”

“M’fine. Spend most of my time here.”

“How about money? Do you still work for that lawyer’s firm?”

Sam shakes his head slowly. He knows Bobby will want answers and wonders for a moment if he should hide it from him.

“No. I… Dean needs me too much.”

Bobby frowns. “Then you must be tapped out.”

“Well.” Sam brushes his hair away from his face. “I get by.”

“What does that mean?”

Dean sighs loudly and yawns. His eyelids are getting heavy. Sam stands up and pulls the back of the chair lower so that Dean can rest easier. “I… well, you know, found something a little better than credit card fraud or pool hustling.”

“Yeah?” Bobby’s single word is full of worry and suspicion.

“I um…” Sam scratches his nose and arranges Dean’s blanket even though it’s perfectly fine. “I… created a company. It’s not real. I mean… on paper it is, it looks legit anyway. This company pretends to provide office supplies. The trick is to start very small and to aim at huge conglomerates, ones that receive hundreds of invoices every month. I send them invoices for office supplies and they send payment for the invoices to a lock box.”

“Okay, what? You send bills to companies for stuff you haven’t provided them and they pay you?”

Sam shrugs. He’s way past being reluctant to do something illegal. “Yeah. These huge companies don’t always check every single invoice they receive, you know. It doesn't work every time, but if I send out enough invoices, some of them get paid. It could take years before someone checks those in detail and realizes that my company never sent them any office supplies. In the meantime, I have a bank account under my company’s name and I can withdraw money from it when I need it.”

“Sam. If you’re ever caught…”

“I highly doubt anyone will ever catch on. I mean, those companies that figure out they don't have the supplies simply don't pay the invoice. Anyway, everything is done through the internet and computerized these days. I transfer the money from my shell company’s account to three different accounts before I access it. If it all works the way I think it will, it’ll be really hard to catch me.”

“Boy, you really are too wise for your own good,” Bobby shakes his head, looking impressed.

“Well, so far, I've only withdrawn money once. I've only just started. But Bobby, I don’t want Dean to suffer from the fact that we spent most of our lives living outside the legal system. We did it to save lives and now that it’s Dean who needs to be taken care of, I won’t feel guilty for stealing a little money here and there.”

At least, that’s what Sam had told himself when he made his decision to work this scheme. There’s still something in him, some residual guilt and a yearning to lead a normal life, a legal life, that protests against the immorality of it all. Then, all Sam has to do is take one look at his brother and it fades away.

“Be careful, okay?” Bobby lowers his tone and bends forward, looking at Sam intently. “Not only about this company you just made up…” Bobby hesitates a little, taking a quick look at Dean. His eyes are closed, his head lolling to the side. “Look, I don’t know how much he understands and I don’t want to… worry him. Think he’s asleep?”

“He’s getting there,” Sam murmurs. He doesn’t like Bobby’s tone, what he’s implying, but he knows already he doesn't have any choice but to listen to what Bobby has to say. Dean though, Dean doesn’t have to deal with any of this. “Let’s go talk in the corridor.”

Bobby doesn’t waste any time as soon as they’re through the door. “Listen, Sam. I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner but things… Things are bad out there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Demons. Possession cases are multiplying. I stay in contact with lots of hunters and they all are seeing the same thing. Seems like Yellow Eyes’ death hasn't quieted things down like I thought it would.”

Sam closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. He’s taken back to the ruins in the woods, the night he found Dean. Meg’s rictus disguising his brother’s features. He shivers in spite of himself. “I never could finish the Exorcism Ritual. Meg got out of Dean before I could.”

“So far, no word about her and, trust me, I've looked. I wanted to know if any of the demons around are out to get you because of what you guys did, but so far, they only seem to be wandering around, doing nasty things to innocent people without any goal. I’m working full time on this with a couple of experienced hunters.”

“Okay.” Sam shakes his head. “Bobby, I can’t… I can’t do anything about this right now. I need to take care of Dean.”

Bobby’s features soften a little. “I know that, boy. That’s why I kept you out of it as much as I could. Anyway, I thought I should warn you, just so you can keep one eye open. And I got something for you.”

The older man shoves his hand in his pocket and opens it on two small medallions. They look old and cheap, something you would buy at a garage sale.

“Tokens against demonic possession,” Bobby explains. “It would be good if you guys could keep them on you. It’s not an ideal solution, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Alright. Thanks, Bobby.”

::: :::

Bobby doesn’t stay for long. He spends the day at the hospital, with Sam, and works on setting protections around Dean’s room that won’t catch the staff’s attention. They can’t exactly lay a salt line on the threshold, but they manage to draw a couple of protection sigil under Dean’s bed. Bobby has two small gri-gri bags stuffed with herbs and other stuff he’s reluctant to talk about. They smell strongly of burnt sage. He puts one in Dean’s bedside table and Sam hides the other inside the panel of the ceiling tile closest to the door. 

They eat dinner in the room with Dean – Bobby gets hamburgers for the three of them. Sam can feel the hunter's gaze on his back while he feeds Dean and wishes he’d stop. He’s annoyed. Dean is in a good mood, looking at Sam between each spoonful and humming while he eats. _He’s getting better_ , Sam wants to repeat to their friend. He knows he’s being unfair. He had come to terms with his own issues when he first realized how incapacitated Dean was. Spending most of his time with him, Sam sees the steps Dean makes each and every single day. They seem giant in his eyes, those steps. Sam knows how hard it is for Dean to work with the kind of brain injury he has sustained. 

Bobby loves them both. His features are full of compassion, his voice softer when he addresses Dean in his gruff, clumsy way. Still, when he tells Sam he won’t be able to stay because of a hunt he needs to check on a couple of states away, it’s a relief. Sam has come to be comfortable in his daily routine and he feels driven by a goal that, for once, seems healthy, in a way. He’s not looking for revenge or trying to be a better man than he thought his father was. He’s giving back to Dean what Dean has given him all of their lives. It’s soothing, in a way. It _feels_ right.

It’s also easier to stop thinking about those demonic sightings and possessions once Bobby is gone. Sam knows he has to keep a hunter’s perspective on things, he’s not stupid enough to think that deciding they’re out of the hunting world means they will be left alone, but Bobby’s presence had reminded him of just how much he's lost to it.

That evening, when he’s alone with his brother, Sam ties a small silver chain around his ankle. The anti-possession token hangs from it. Sam doesn’t want to risk Dean asphyxiating because of a necklace – that’s why he’s been wearing Dean’s amulet since he got admitted - and a bracelet would have been in the way of Dean’s daily care. 

Closing the clasp around Dean’s ankle, Sam feels his brother’s eyes on him.

“I know it’s lame, dude, but it’s for your own good,” Sam explains, pulling Dean’s sock back up.

Dean answers by humming the first notes of another song – _Ruby Tuesday._ Sam turns on the small TV and flips to a rerun of _Dukes of Hazard._ He likes the quiet evenings they get to spend together. As usual, he settles Dean on one side on the bed and sits next to him, commenting on what they’re watching. Sam doesn’t have any idea if his brother even realizes they’re watching anything at all. Dean rarely fixes his attention on anything and although his eyes often catch the moving images, it never lasts long.

Still, he’s more relaxed in those moments, will let Sam know with small sighs or noises from the back of his throat. That evening, as always, his upper body gets laxer as the night wears on and he ends up with his head resting on Sam’s shoulder. 

“You’re a cuddler, man,” Sam laughs. “I’ve always known.”

There in the room, it’s easy to forget about the outside world. Dean doesn’t care about it anymore anyways. He cares about being fed when he’s hungry, being reassured when he’s scared, being warm and comfortable. He cares about Sam being there with him. 

Sam is okay with that.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean takes his first steps in his hospital room on the first day of December while a snow storm rages outside. For the last week or so, he’s been able to stand up on his own as long as someone holds his hands. All efforts to try and get him to take his first steps had failed up to this point, Dean refusing or unable to lift his feet. Whenever the physical therapists or Sam had tried, Dean had started fighting with all the little strength he could muster, closing his eyes and moaning pitifully. According to Nathalie, Dean could walk if he wanted to, but he’s scared. “We still can't accurately assess his mental state. All of this must be very confusing for him, so alien, but he’s improving each day and I’m sure he’ll overcome his fear eventually.”

Dr. Murphy had been of the same opinion, so each day, Sam had worked with his brother to coax him into walking, never backing down, but never pushing him too much. There have been many changes in Dean’s routine lately. He now goes to the physical therapy room once every other day. Since he’s so scared of everything, they have to work with caution to ensure he doesn't withdraw into himself. The first time, just the trip in the wheelchair from his room to the large physical therapy gym in the hospital’s basement had been enough. Natalie had shown him all the equipment while Sam crouched next to the wheelchair, never removing his hand from Dean’s thigh. Dean now looks at him much more often, and holds his stare, searching Sam’s eyes and expression for some sort of comfort or reassurance. That time in the gym, he’d never acknowledged he was listening to Nathalie at all, but Sam is sure some things got through nevertheless.

Today, Dean is calm and cooperating during his bath. He even smiles the half-smile reserved only for Sam, blushing all the while when Sam pats his cheeks softly after he’s done with the shaving. Dean’s hair has grown steadily and is now a couple of centimeters long, already spiking up. The scars aren’t that visible anymore, hidden as they are amongst the patches of new hair growth. Dean reminds Sam of the scrawny teenager he used to be, except for the lack of freckles. Dean’s freckles have always been more visible and numerous after spending time outside. Now, after three months in a hospital bed, the tiny dots are fading on his fair skin.

“Gosh, you must be so damn tired of this, aren't you?” Sam asks. "I would be.”

Dean doesn’t listen. He looks at the too white sneaker Sam is putting on his left foot and closes his eyes, moaning his displeasure.

“Hey, we just try, okay? We try, that’s all. I’ll be right there with you,” Sam says.

The fact that Dean seems so scared of everything is something the doctors haven't been able to explain. Murphy has been consulting colleagues and has even had a neuropsychologist come to examine Dean, but the fact that he doesn’t talk and doesn’t seem like he understands what’s asked of him has rendered the task almost impossible. Sam wonders if this has anything to do with what put Dean in the coma in the first place, or more generally with the life they’d lead before. What does Dean remember? Does he remember any of it at all? Lately, it seems like he responds to his name, at least when Sam says it, but that might only be because Sam repeats it so often.

“Wonder what's going on in that head of yours, bro,” he whispers, finishing the shoelaces on the right feet. “Come on,” he adds, holding his hands out to Dean.

Dean doesn’t grab them. It’s only when Sam wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrists that his brother pushes himself forward to sit. 

“Okay, here we go.” Sam adds, sliding Dean’s legs over the edge of the bed. 

Dean resists for a little while, but when Sam tugs at his hands he follows the pull and stands up. His face gets immediately red and he shuts his eyes tight. His fingers wrap themselves around Sam’s and, even though he’s solid on his feet, he shows no sign of feeling grounded. 

“Dean look at me,” Sam says, as he always does. 

Dean hums under his breath, eyes still closed.

“Come on, you can do it. You can at least look at me.”

There has been some improvement in this aspect of Dean's behavior over the course of the last couple of weeks and, more recently, Dean almost always looks when the command is repeated a couple of times, but so far he’s always refused to open his eyes when he’s standing up.

Sam doesn’t know what gets into him that morning. He’ll probably never know why he decides to try it, or if he even does it consciously. Nevertheless, when he asks again, he’s firmer than usual, more commanding than asking.

Dean’s eyes open suddenly, immediately looking back into Sam’s. 

“There you go, keep looking at me,” Sam adds, a little shocked. 

He already knows why Dean obeyed. His voice had been so much closer to the one they were both raised with - John’s. Sam doesn’t know what to make of this. He’s not sure he likes it, but for the moment he can’t think about it too much because just then Dean realizes he’s actually looking and he starts humming, shaking his head softly. It’s not a sign that he’s refusing something, according to Dr. Murphy, more like a soothing gesture, a repeated motion that comforts him.

“It’s okay, Dean. We can do this, all right? I’m still here. I won’t let go of you.”

Dean hums more intensely.

“We’re going to walk. Only a couple of steps. We’re going to show them what we Winchesters are capable of.”

Sam tugs on Dean’s hands, taking a small step backward. Dean shakes his head faster and the humming stops to be replaced by a groan from deep in his throat. 

“Dean, follow my lead. Come on.”

The groan shifts to something more feral, vehement, the closest Dean gets to expressing anger. Even though his eyes are still open, his gaze isn't on Sam anymore.

Sighing, Sam thinks fast. He doesn’t want to abuse his brother in any way, but Dean had responded to the John-like voice, not as if he’d been scared, just as a reflex. 

“Dean, you walk with me. I know you can do it. Dean, you follow me, you understand?” He says as firmly as he can.

He tugs a little harder.

Dean stops making noise, stops shaking his head. He looks down at his feet and does some kind of stumble, barely noticeable, but still, it's something.

“Yeah, come on.”

Sam tugs harder on the right arm, Dean’s stronger side. He’s been right handed all of his life and there is no reason for that to change now, the neurologist had said.

“Come on,” Sam repeats.

Dean’s hips rock softly from left to right. Then it happens. He groans once more, lifts his right leg barely off the ground, and follows Sam. It’s a small, clumsy step, but it resonates from floor to ceiling in the room and even more so in Sam’s head.

“Yes, yes, that’s it, Dean, you’re doing it!”

Sam tugs on Dean’s left arm and he takes another step, as clumsy as the first, then, without Sam even tugging him forward, Dean takes two other steps on his own. Beads of sweat cover his forehead and his features are tense, almost grimacing. He pants, trying to lift his head to look at Sam, but all of sudden, his legs give out and he collapses forward, moaning desperately.

Sam catches him at the waist, letting go of his wrists just in time. Dean’s face lands hard on Sam’s chest and he lets out a surprised gasp, his hands trying to claw at Sam’s back. “Whoa. Relax, Dean, I've got you,” Sam murmurs, but Dean is overwhelmed by it all and, in the end, Sam simply slides his arm under his brother’s legs and lifts him in his arms. 

“See? I’ll take you to your bed, you did so freaking good, you can rest now, okay?”

Dean doesn’t stop panting until Sam settles him in his bed. When he’s finally lying on his back, instead of withdrawing, he searches for Sam’s eyes.

“You’re okay?” Sam asks, short of breath.

Dean doesn’t move at all, just keeps looking at him which is something different, the stillness and attention in this look, the calm concentration Dean puts into it.

It takes Sam a couple of seconds to understand. He feels like Dean –his big brother, the Dean that Sam has known all of his life- is reaching for him from the depths of his confused mind. In this instant, he’s right there, gazing at Sam.

“Oh,” Sam whispers, smiling. “You’re a badass, is that what you’re saying?”

Dean blinks but remains still.

“Okay, alright, I'll give you that. You’re awesome,” Sam adds, his voice low but keeping the playful note. “Nothing can stop the great Dean Winchester.”

Dean grunts, blinks one more time, then something shift and he gets that now familiar lost expression again, shaking his head slowly from left to right. Sam bends toward him and touches his shoulder. “I know you’re in there and I know how hard you're trying, Dean. You really are awesome.”

Dean sighs and closes his eyes.

Sam pulls Dean’s sneakers off. As soon as that's done, Dean starts humming. A Beatle’s song, which is surprising, given that his brother has never shown a real appreciation of the band. Ever since he woke up, the songs he usually hums are the ones he listened to so many times before the incident with Meg that he knows them by heart.

“ _Hey Jude_? You like this one?”

Dean’s hands grip at the sheets for a second and then they slowly relax. He keeps on humming. After a while, Sam joins him.

::: :::

The next week sees the most improvement in Dean’s condition since he came out of the coma. Now that he’s walked for the first time, most of his fear of standing up seems to have dissipated. He absolutely refuses to do it if it’s anyone other than Sam helping him, but by the end of the week, he can walk the length of his room and back to his bed. It exhausts him, but he doesn’t fight against the exercise if it’s his brother holding his hands. The way he sometimes holds his chin up –a gesture very Dean-like- tells Sam that there is a new determination driving him. The progress Dean is making is so positive that Sam begins to sleep better than he has in months. Of course, that's not to say there aren't new difficulties. Dean moves more when he’s in his bed and some of the nurses now fear he could try to get out on his own and hurt himself. So far, he hasn’t done it, but Sam fears the same thing. 

He’s not really surprised, then, when on December sixth, Dr. Murphy insists on having one of those chats Sam always dreads a little. He knows they have reached another step in Dean’s cares and wonders what the new action plan will be.

Apparently, it’s to get Dean out of the hospital.

Sam looks at the long-term care center brochure and stays silent for a long time.

“Isn’t it like a retirement home or something… with old people?”

Murphy smiles. “There are elderly there, but no. Mostly it's for people who have been in accidents and are in need of intensive physical therapy –which the center provides- and those with debilitating diseases like multiple sclerosis. This is an environment where Dean could be nurtured. He’s progressing, Sam, there is no denying it, but in my opinion, here is not the place for him to get what he needs. Silver Fir Hill is a good place. Dean wouldn’t be stuck in a hospital bed all day long there. They have a pool, great occupational and physical therapy services, nurses and orderlies used to working with people like Dean. Hell, Sam, the food is much better than here. And I’d still be his neurologist, of course. I have at least ten patients there. It’s not cheap, but your insurance will most probably cover it.”

Sam sighs. Yeah, the center looks great. Of course, he’d have to visit it to be sure, but…

“Let’s face it, Sam. Dean probably won’t be able to care for himself anytime in the near future. He could lead a good life there and you could have more time for yourself.”

Sam frowns. “I don’t need time for myself, Dr.”

“Yes, you do. You’ve been here every single day since your brother was admitted. Dean is learning to rely on you, and on you alone. He needs to learn to trust other people, to socialize -in his own way of course.”

“He relies on me because we were raised that way,” Sam protests. Something about the whole long-term facility thing bugs him. Maybe it’s the prospect of Dean spending months there –hell, years. 

_No. He’s getting better.  
But to what extent, Sam? What is the definition of getting better for Dean?_

Having him here, in the hospital, is like knowing that he’ll be released sooner or later, because being hospitalized is a temporary thing. You heal, then you get out. It’s only a matter of perception, of course, but Sam isn’t at the point where he can consider Dean remaining in his current state for years. Far from it.

“What if… What if I find a place for me and him?” He asks, putting the pamphlet back on the desk. “There are nursing services that can do home visits, right? And he could… He could continue his physical therapy as an out patient.”

“Sam, do you realize what you’re suggesting?” Murphy shakes his head. “Dean can’t do anything on his own. He’s incontinent. Can’t feed himself, can’t walk without help. You wouldn’t be able to go out, even if it’s just to buy bread and milk.”

“There are delivery services. I can find a place that’s adapted for Dean, or do some modifications myself.”

Sam has never let himself think about these things before, but now that he’s facing the situation, he knows he can't put Dean in a long-term care facility. His brother would hate it. Besides, it’s always been the two of them –even with John around, it’s always been the two of them. Of course, it would be complicated finding a place and getting all the needed services in place and Sam would have to be there for Dean 24/7, but at least they wouldn’t be stuck in a place that isn’t theirs. 

Strangely, the thought of taking Dean out of here and managing on his own doesn’t scare Sam. It’s something he actually looks forward to. For the last few months, he’s dedicated himself to Dean and he’d felt at peace with it, more than he ever felt at peace back when he was in school, pursuing a dream that had been born uniquely from teenage anger and resentment.

Murphy looks at him, shaking his head again.

“You won’t be able to work, Sam, how will you…”

“I have money,” Sam cuts the man off.

He does. His shell company scheme is working way better than he could have imagined. He needs to be careful, but money isn’t an issue anymore.

“You know what?” The neurologist leans back on his chair and crosses his arms behind his head. “I knew you would come up with something like this. Sam, you love your brother very much and your dedication to him is admirable, really. But are you sure you’re ready to take this responsibility on your shoulders alone?”

“Yes. It’s the way we do things in my family.”

::: :::

It takes Sam two weeks to find a place near the hospital, since Dean will have to come back regularly for his physical and occupational therapy sessions. In the end, it’s Joe Framingham who comes up with something that seems like it might work. Since Sam had told them he was going to move out, the owners of the shelter had helped with the search to find a place. Sam knows they’ve grown attached to him and that they have a lot of sympathy for his situation. Maybe one day he’ll be able to come back and introduce them to Dean, to explain to him how much help they’ve been during his hospitalization. 

What Framingham finds isn’t an apartment. It’s a small house for rent. It used to belong to an eighty-five year old woman who had mobility issues toward the end of her life, so it’s already adapted for a wheelchair, has a sitting shower and rails on the walls. The rent is higher than what Sam would’ve liked to pay, but most of the furniture remains for them to use since the woman’s grandkids aren't sure they'll ever want to sell the house. 

Everything is pink and cream and Sam’s not sure about the dried bouquets hanging everywhere, but he won’t turn down an opportunity like this. The neighborhood is very nice, there is a garage for the Impala and a small backyard, although it’s currently covered in snow.

The time alone Sam will be saving is worth it. He already has to spent way too many hours away from Dean for his liking, getting everything ready. During those two weeks, Dean’s progress seems to come to a halt, like it’s really connected to Sam’s presence. Whenever Sam arrives at the hospital after running some errands, he finds his brother nervous, even grumpy. He does a lot of grunting and head shaking, like Dean wants to make sure Sam understands that he doesn’t appreciate being left on his own. Sam makes a point of reassuring him that he only does it so they can finally get out of this hospital and back to a more normal life -well, not really normal, but more normal anyway- and it’s really frustrating not knowing how much Dean understands. 

Four days before Christmas, Bobby comes back to spend a couple of days with Sam. His only comment about the hunting world is that nothing significant has come up to help him and his fellow hunters understand the situation. Sam doesn’t need to know more. Bobby’s presence is a relief. Sam has moved into the house but there's still a lot to do before he can take Dean home. Bobby helps fix some stuff and places protections all over the property in a discreet way. Sam can tell their old friend feels more at ease with this than at the hospital, spending time with Dean. He makes considerable effort to try not to show his uneasiness and sadness around him, but he just can’t seem to connect with Dean. It’s not a question of love, and Sam doesn’t resent him for it. He figures that if he himself hadn’t been there with Dean every step of the way, he would have trouble hiding his shock at Dean’s current state.

Of course, before leaving, Bobby has to sit down with Sam to have a serious conversation about Sam’s decision to bring Dean to live with him. He talks about responsibility, about Sam needing to live his life and not isolate himself. “Why don’t you boys move in with me?” He asks. The offer is sincere and Sam thanks him before explaining calmly that it’s better for Dean to stay in the Peoria Area. They will have to come to the hospital three times a week for Dean’s rehabilitation. The staff knows Dean well and has followed him since the beginning. It’s better for his brother to have continuity in this, considering Dean’s general nervousness and apprehension. 

_And we’re better off by ourselves, away from hunter’s calling day and night and spell books, Bobby leaving to go on a hunt or discussing demons and monsters on a daily basis,_ Sam thinks, but doesn’t say out loud. Bobby wouldn’t understand that this isn’t something Sam holds personally against him. It could hurt his feelings. 

Before Bobby leaves, he wants to say goodbye to Dean. Sam stops at the nurse's station to have a word with Joseph about his brother’s menu. When he gets to Dean’s room, he freezes in the doorway. 

Bobby is bent over Dean’s bed where his brother is settled comfortably, pressing his hands together and humming, careful not to look at the old hunter. 

“You take care of yourself, son, alright?” Bobby whispers gruffly. “I… S’ hard for me, sorry I can’t be of more help.” Then, he runs a hand softly through Dean’s short hair and kisses him on the forehead. 

Sam takes a step back into the corridor, respecting Bobby’s privacy. Something wells up in his throat, the never-ending sorrow always present in the back of his mind for the brother he’s lost. It’s been a while since Sam has felt it so acutely. He prefers to concentrate on his everyday life and on what needs to be done, not allowing himself to think too much about the emptiness that Dean's –as he used to be- absence has left in him. 

Sam takes a couple of deep breaths and makes some noise before he walks back into the room. Bobby wishes them a merry Christmas and leaves shortly thereafter.

::: :::

On Christmas Eve, Sam leaves the hospital after giving Dean his sponge bath. The only things left for him to do before taking his brother home are to fill the fridge and buy some clothes. 

The mall he walks into has this crazy last-minute-gift vibe. There are people everywhere. Literally. Sam is more annoyed than anything. True, he’s never been a fan of Christmas –when he was younger, it only served as a reminder of how his life was different from other kids'. This year, though, all he wants is to finish running his errands and go back to the hospital. He finds the retail store he’s been to before to buy Dean’s pajamas and picks up a couple of new ones as well as sweat pants, tee-shirts, Henley’s, socks and two warm hoodies. He’s heading to the cash register when he sees winter garments. Dean has trouble regulating his body temperature now –a common consequence for brain damaged patients. The fact that he doesn’t move a lot affects his blood circulation as well. Sam knows by now that Dean doesn’t tolerate being cold very well. He gets grumpy at first, then starts complaining like it actually hurts.

“Christmas presents,” Sam murmurs to himself, picking up a pair of knitted mittens, a matching hat and scarf. He already has a parka ready for taking Dean out of the hospital. It's an old thing they always keep in the trunk, with a faux fur bordered hood. Sam remembers John wearing it sometimes. 

Afterwards, Sam stops at the grocery store near their rented house and fills the cart. He asks the cashier if they have delivery service: they do. The young woman gives him a pamphlet, her Santa hat dropping down on her forehead. “Merry Christmas!” She smiles at him.

It’s snowing when Sam gets out. He stops at home to put away his purchases and find himself whistling some Christmas song he doesn’t even remember the name to. Dean will be here with him tomorrow. That’s Sam’s Christmas present - taking his brother out of the hospital for good.

He’s about to put his boots back on when his cellphone rings. It’s the hospital’s number. Sam picks up quickly.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Sam, it’s Joseph.”

“Is Dean alright?” Sam asks, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear so that he can put on his coat.

“Well, he’s mad at me. You should come.”

“What happened?”

Joseph sighs. “Listen man, I’m sorry, but it’s been hell here today and I found Dean trying to get over the rails of his bed.”

“Did he hurt himself?”

“No. I caught him in time. But we’re overloaded and I can’t keep an eye on him so I put his restraining belt on. He's fighting it and he keeps growling. I’m sorry I-“

“No, it’s okay. I get it.” Sam is already out the door. “I’ll be right there.”

It hurts, knowing that Dean is restrained to his bed and suffering from it, but at the same time, it’s proof that he’s not done fighting. 

“Good news is, he keeps repeating your name,” Joseph adds.

“What, he’s talking?”

“He wants you, man, get here.”

Sam smiles like a mad man all the way to the hospital.

::: :::

There's a lot of activity on the neurological wing: families visiting their loved ones, gifts clutched in their hands. The walls are decorated with Christmas lights and wreaths and most of the staff have some kind of decoration on them, flashing badges, elf hats, and reindeer ears.

Sam doesn’t even stop by the nurse's station because he can actually hear Dean’s gruff voice over the conversations and general noise. He passes Joseph coming out of another room, sweating bullets. “Thanks, Sam,” he says quickly, not even slowing his pace.

Dean _is_ angry. Lying on his bed, he moves his hips from left to right, his hands clawing madly at the sheets, his feet hitting the mattress again and again. He lets out a continued stream of groans and low screams, face beet red as he fights to get out of the restraining belt.

“Dean I’m here.”

Sam grabs the magnetic key from the bedside table. The staff had told him about the restraint mechanism. The belt isn’t hurting Dean. He can even sit with it. It’s a good solution for confused or uncooperative patients and it’s less traumatic than the classic wrist and ankle bracelets. Still, it’s the first time Dean has actually worn it and he obviously doesn’t like it. 

“Hey, I’ll get you out of there, just hold on,” Sam says as calmly as he can.

Dean seems to become aware of his presence then. He stops moving all of a sudden, turns his head toward Sam and looks him straight in the eyes.

“Yeah, I’m here. Let me-“

Sam bends down to unlock the magnetic strap of the belt, feeling Dean’s quick breaths on his neck. 

“Ssss-aaa-m,” Dean slurs in a distressed voice.

Sam looks up, trying not to burst out crying right then and there because hearing his name is a greater shock than he’d imagined. It was only a question of time, according to Dr. Murphy, before Dean would start expressing himself. They would work on it when he was more comfortable with the different therapies he’d need.

Still.

“I’m here,” Sam murmurs, his voice breaking off on the last word.

“Ssaaam…” Dean repeats. “Saaammm.” He screams, like he wants Sam to know he’s not okay with being left alone and tied to his bed.

“Yeah, that’s me. Sorry about this, man,” Sam says in the same low tone of voice.

Dean’s features crumble and he bursts into tears, trying to grip Sam’s shoulders with his clumsy hands. That’s what finally triggers Sam’s own break down. An ugly, loud sob tears through his throat and he presses his forehead against Dean’s, trying to get himself under control.

“I’m here, Dean. I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

Dean shakes his head as the tears flow down his reddened cheeks. “Sssaam. Sssamm,” he hiccups.

“Yes. Yes, Dean. We’re going to get out of here. You and me. It’s more than time, what do you say?”

Sam swallows back another sob and grabs a Kleenex from the bedside table, wiping Dean’s wet face and the clear snot under his nose. Dean keeps looking at him, exhausted. At least, the anger in his expression is gone.

Yes, it’s more than time.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s still early on Christmas morning when Sam finally sits Dean in the wheelchair the hospital has provided for him. Dean is already dressed in the thick parka, has his hat on his head and his mittens on. He keeps looking at Sam, confusion written all over his gaunt face. 

Sam buckles the belt on the wheelchair, crouching in front of Dean. “Okay, as I’ve been telling you, we’ve got a place to live now. We’re getting out of here for good, Dean. Hey, look at me.”

Dean huffs but obeys. He looks kind of goofy with his wool hat sitting low on his forehead. 

“Yes, that’s it. I know you don’t like change and there are a whole lot of changes coming up. Trust me on this, I’m going to be there every step of the way. First step, we’re going out. You haven’t been out in months. It’s winter out there, did you know that?”

Dean blinks. His hands are interlaced on his thighs.

“So, yeah, then we’ll drive home in the Impala. Your car. I bet you can’t wait to sit in your baby, right? I’ve taken good care of her.”

Dean huffs again and wiggles his hips, trying to move his arms at the same time. He doesn’t like being stuck in the winter coat. 

“We’re going now,” Sam pats his brother’s leg and stands up, a duffle bag hanging from his shoulders.

He takes one last look at the room. 

Wishes that he could go back in time and stop Dean from leaving Bobby’s place all by himself.

No. There is no time for looking back or for regret. Sam thinks the only way to retain his sanity is to stay in the here and now. That's the best attitude he can have, for Dean and for himself.

Pushing the wheelchair down the corridor of the Neurological floor is hard. They get stopped several times by nurses and orderlies who want to wish them good luck. Dean is so agitated by the time they reach the nurses' station Sam wants to yell at them to leave his brother alone. Luckily, Joseph is there, waiting.

“Okay, guys. Dean is kind of overwhelmed, give him some space.”

Sam thanks them one more time, wishes them a merry Christmas and heads toward the exit, followed by Joseph who holds the door for them and pushes the button for the elevator.

He shakes hands with Sam. “It was a pleasure to get to know you guys. Seriously, Sam, you’re one of a kind. I bet everybody wishes they had a brother like you.”

Sam’s cheeks get hot. He smiles. “I’m not half the brother Dean has been for me. He raised me, Joseph. Was always there for me. What I’m doing here is simply trying to do what I think Dean would do if our places were reversed.”

Joseph looks at him for a long time. “We should grab a beer sometime.”

“We should.”

“Seriously, Sam. I don't do this normally, but if you ever need a break, I can help. Dean knows me.” Joseph hands him a piece of paper with his phone number written on it. 

“Thanks.”

Joseph crouches down to be at Dean’s level. Dean doesn’t look at him. Head tilted to the side, his hands grabbing at the wool inside his mittens. He’s nervous, disoriented.

“Don’t give up, Dean. You keep fighting, alright?” Joseph says softly.

“Sa-aamm,” Dean grunts, shaking his head.

Joseph smiles. “Okay, okay, I’ll leave you to your _Sam_.”

With one last wink at Sam, Joseph leaves them in front of the elevator

Dean is agitated all the way down, but not in the same way he mumbles and grunts when he knows he’s heading to the physical therapy lab. To be honest, Sam is agitated as well. He wants to do this right, wants to be there for Dean in the way Dean needs him to be.

When they get outside, Dean stops moving all of a sudden. It isn’t snowing, but the sky is thick with unshed flakes. Dean blinks and his eyes fill with water. His teeth are already chattering. He looks scared and amazed at the same time. He lifts his head upward and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. Sam tries to keep his composure. He doesn’t care about the people that walk around them or the looks they give Dean, a combination of pity and ignorance. They don’t stare for long, like they’re afraid of getting caught.

Sam bends downs next to Dean and adjusts his brother’s hat. 

“Saam-mmy,” Dean whispers.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

::: :::

If Dean recognizes the Impala, he doesn’t show it. Sam is short of breath, busy making sure Dean is comfortable inside the car, then folding the wheelchair and sliding it onto the back seat since it doesn’t fit in the trunk, even with most of their hunting gear taken off. He starts the car and Dean jumps at the rumble of the engine. 

“It’s okay, it’s alright, we’re in your baby, Dean.”

Dean stretches out a hand clumsily and tries to touch the cassette deck. “Music? You want music, Dean?” Sam asks, unable to hide the excitement in his voice.  
Dean hums and shakes his head softly. Sam pushes the old Metallica tape inside, but keeps the volume low. Dean is hypersensitive to noise ever since coming out of the coma and Sam doesn’t want to exacerbate his nervousness.

As he drives, he keeps casting quick looks at his brother to see how he’s doing. For the first couple of minutes, Dean frowns at the cassette player, shaking his head, then stopping, like he’s not sure if it pleases him or not. Eventually, his upper body relaxes a little and he turns his head to look outside.

Ten minutes in and Dean’s eyelids gets heavy. He yawns a couple of times, tries to rub at his eyes and finally gives up, letting sleep take him.

Sam is nervous when he stops the car in their driveway. Dean is snoring, face pressed against the window, a long trickle of saliva on his chin. Sam takes the opportunity to grab Dean’s bag and his wheelchair and take them into the house. From the driveway it's only ten footsteps to the front door and the two steps leading up to the porch are covered with a well build plank to ease the way. Dean can walk. The idea of Dean, walking into their new home instead of being pushed passively in a wheelchair seems right to Sam.

He doesn’t spend more than two minutes in the house, getting the wheelchair open and ready, but when he gets back, Dean is awake. And scared. His hands are pressed against the door’s window, his mouth articulating Sam’s name very clearly.

He doesn’t calm down when Sam opens the door, no matter how reassuring he tries to be. Dean hides his hands behind his back when Sam wants to take them and then fights as Sam drags his legs out of the car.

“Dean, we’re home. This is our place, we’re here. Don’t worry, we’ll be just fine,” Sam breathes out. 

“Sammmy-“ Dean protests.

“Oh, don’t you try your “Sammy” on me,” Sam smiles, hearing the nickname for a second time. “We’re going in.”

Dean’s teeth chatter and he looks around with the expression of a cornered animal. It takes about five minutes to drag him out of the car. By then, Sam is shivering as well. Dean follows him reluctantly, his lips already taking on the bluish tint they get so often now when he’s cold.

“A few steps, that’s all I’m asking,” Sam coaxes him.

It seems like a long way to the house, but they eventually make it. Sam is exhausted when he finally settles Dean in the wheelchair, having had to practically drag him inside. It’s another fight to take his coat off. Dean is obviously disturbed and exhausted and the little help he provides most of the time is absent.

Sam sweats profusely while he takes off his brother’s boots and, by then, Dean is moaning, trying to hold back his tears. 

“Enough of this,” Sam mumbles, rising up to his knees to be able to look Dean in the eye. 

He presses his hand on Dean’s left cheek, softly but firmly. “Hey. Dean. This is a lot, I know. I get it, man. You need to let it out? You just do it, alright?”

At that precise moment, a big, single tear escapes one of Dean’s eyes. Sam tries his best to keep his composure, but the stress of the last days, his nervousness over bringing Dean home, and the total helplessness he feels toward his brother’s distress gets the best of him. He swallows a sob and hugs Dean against his chest. “I’m scared too, man. It’s okay to be scared. We’ll figure this out. We always do.”

“Sam,” Dean whispers, pressing his head into the crook of Sam’s neck, like he wants to reassure him, somehow, that yes, they’ll be alright.

After another minute, Sam pushes Dean’s wheelchair directly to his bedroom -the whole house tour will have to wait - where a queen size bed awaits him. High quality pillows and sheets, plus a warm duvet, give the room a lived-in look. The bed frame is low, so that Dean won’t hurt himself if he ever falls out.

Sam couldn’t bring himself to rent a hospital bed, which would have been much safer for Dean and easier on Sam's back. He wants Dean to feel at home, even if that means more work for him. For the same reason, a twin bed sits in the corner of Dean’s room. Despite, having a room of his own, Sam doesn’t want his brother to spend his nights alone. At the hospital, a nurse had checked on him every hour during the night. Sam doesn’t know how Dean might react to waking up alone and he wants to alleviate any possibility that Dean will resort to wandering around the house in the dark, trying to find him.

For now, Sam’s too long frame will have to acclimate to the twin bed, on which he has to lay kind of diagonally if he wants all of his body to fit.

The wheelchair scratches the wall paint when Sam rolls it through the narrow space between the wall and the bed. Dean is still close to tears, but he seems calmer now – or maybe it’s just the exhaustion. 

“This is your room,” Sam explains, pulling back the covers. There is a thick, cushioned pad in the middle of the bed because sometimes Dean’s diapers leak. Under the sheets is a plastic protector for the mattress. The fact that he has to protect his twenty seven year old brother’s mattress against urine leaks still hits Sam hard sometimes.

Sam shakes his head and clears his throat.

“I bet you feel like lying down for a bit, right?” He asks Dean, already pulling him up. 

Dean follows obediently. He’s so used to his bed and chair transfers by now that it’s become second nature. He seems surprised, though, when he finds himself sitting down much lower than usual, his hips bouncing on the mattress.

“Okay, here we go.”

Sam only has to tug on his legs for Dean to get the message. Helping himself as much as he can, despite still having a lot of coordination problems with his arms, he tries to lowers himself down without it being too brutal. Sam knows how much concentration it takes him to do this simple task. By the time Dean is laying down on his back, his face is beet red, his features tensed in a grimace of discomfort.

“You can sleep as long as you want. Nothing special planned today,” Sam babbles, fitting Dean’s comforter up under his chin. “I figured tonight we could watch something on TV in the living room. It’s Christmas, so…”

“Sam,” Dean whispers, the fingers of his right hand caressing the soft texture of the cover. He yawns and looks around him.

“Yeah, I know. Lots to take in. We’ll… one thing at a time, okay?”

Dean seems so lost in this huge bed, so different from the hospital’s narrow ones, that Sam can’t bring himself to leave him alone, even though, by the way he keeps yawning, he won’t be able to stay awake much longer.

“You know what? I’m tired too. The last couple of weeks have been crazy,” Sam tells his brother, sitting on his own bed. “I think I’ll nap with you for a while, what do you say?”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he starts to wiggle until he’s lying on his left side, facing Sam’s bed. Then he sighs. 

“See? Not going anywhere,” Sam whispers, lying down too, facing Dean.

His brother’s huge eyes never turn away until Dean can’t fight anymore, despite looking like he’s determined not to fall asleep in this new, strange environment. 

“It’s a nice house. We’ll stay here for a while,” Sam tells him, so used to constantly speaking to Dean that, half of the time, he can’t even determine if he’s really addressing his brother or just talking to himself. “And when spring comes we’ll go to the zoo, just like you said we would.”

Dean tries to say Sam’s name but he’s too somnolent to do anything other than slur a long “S”, like an exhale of resignation before he finally closes his eyes.

::: :::

Dean sleeps most of the day. That evening, Sam settles with him in the living room where they watch _A Christmas Story._ Sam feeds Dean a piece of raspberry pie he'd bought especially for the occasion. Dean doesn’t make it to the end of the movie. He falls asleep, drooling on Sam’s shoulder, red stains and pie crumbs at the corner of his mouth, looking sated and content just as Ralphie is ready to try his Red Rider BB gun.

::: :::

The first week is the worst. The day after Christmas, Sam wakes up before his brother, sitting on his bed and trying to slow down his breathing. _What am I doing, what have I done? I can’t do this. He needs too much, I can’t. I’m in way over my head._

The hysterical internal monologue won’t stop. Sam is close to a panic attack. He realizes suddenly how, despite his almost constant presence at the hospital, he'd depended on the nursing staff to help care for his brother.

He’s alone now, solely responsible for everything Dean needs. It's all up to him now, him and him alone to ensure his brother’s well-being every single hour of the day.

Despite having prepared for everything, from the drugstore delivery to the service of a private nursing agency, Sam had forgotten one essential thing.

He doesn’t have a plan.

Or, more precisely, he doesn’t have the faintest idea as to how to organize Dean’s daily routine. 

_Well, if you don’t have a plan, just make one, you moron,_ Sam admonishes himself.

He’s already spoken with the physical and occupational therapists at the hospital. Since Dean has to acclimate to a new environment, it’s important not to stress him too much. The first week, he only has one session scheduled. They’ll switch to three the week after, combining physical and occupational therapy so that Dean doesn’t have to come to the hospital each and every day. 

The nursing agency is supposed to send someone December 27, just to evaluate Dean’s needs and to introduce him to the person who’s going to care for him if Sam has to go out. He’s not stupid, he knows Dean is far from ready to go grocery shopping or run errands. It’s unrealistic to think that he can be there for Dean twenty-four/seven, never needing to go out. Even though basically everything can be delivered to their home, Sam needs at least a couple of hours a week to take care of things like shopping, paying his bills, retrieving money. 

Sam knows too well how Dean now reacts to strangers, so he wants the nurse to be able to connect with him while Sam is in the house with them before leaving Dean alone with him, or her.

So, except for the visit to the hospital and the nurse coming for the first time, Sam has the entire first week to figure out how to arrange their routine.

Dean sleeps a lot the day after their arrival. He’s cooperative but visibly overwhelmed by his new environment. He starts murmuring Sam’s name in a distressed voice each time his brother gets out of view.

At the hospital, once a week, Dean used to be settled in a patient lift and carried to a special bathroom to facilitate a real bath. At home, Sam figures it will be easier, with the bath seat, to get Dean on it and run the shower.

When the warm water hits his shivering brother for the first time, he lets out a surprised moan and tries to get away from it. By the time Sam has reassured him and made him comfortable, with the shower head directed to his chest instead of his face, he’s as wet as Dean. He can’t give him a bath. Dean is still too clumsy and weak to be able to sit down and stand up, slippery wet, while Sam tries to lift him from ground level. This will have to wait. In the meantime, Sam figures he might as well step in the shower with him and get clean at the same time. Dean is less scared to have Sam right there with him and being naked in front of his brother doesn’t bother Sam in the slightest. He’s seen each and every single part of Dean’s body on a daily basis since he fell into a coma and Dean doesn’t care a bit about Sam’s modesty.

Dressing Dean poses a problem because the bed can’t be raised to Sam’s level. He has to get used to sitting on the bed next to his brother to help him into his diaper and clothes. After the shower, they eat breakfast. Sam already has a comfortable chair with a cushion that can be pushed against the table so that it maintains Dean's position. Dean can watch him cook and then they eat together afterward.

Dean needs a nap after his breakfast. He wouldn’t always take one at the hospital, but here he has to move more and put much more effort into helping Sam with his care. He sleeps for an hour or so. If Sam doesn’t stay in the room with him while he falls asleep, Dean sits up and makes all sorts of noises, calling Sam’s name in between, refusing to lie down if Sam isn’t lying down himself on his twin bed. Still, when Dean’s asleep, Sam manages to do a bit of cleaning and tidying in the house. As soon as his brother wakes up, he’s by his side. They go through the lunch routine the same way they eat breakfast. Then, Sam settles Dean in the living room in front of the TV while he does the dishes. The first two days, Sam has to come to Dean every couple of minutes to reassure him that he’s still there. Then, he develops the habit of speaking to him from the kitchen while Dean watches – more or less - TV.

Right after that, Sam has Dean do the exercises the physical therapist showed him. There is a lot of walking around the house, stretching, pushing and pulling. After half an hour, Dean is always beet red and drenched in sweat. Sometimes, Sam has to push him to his room in his wheelchair because Dean just can’t muster the strength required. 

Dean sleeps until Sam wakes him up for dinner. They eat early: never after five thirty. The evening is more relaxed. Sam settles in the living room with his brother sitting next to him on the couch. He sometimes reads to him or works on his laptop while Dean watches TV. Dean likes those moments. He gets as close to Sam as he can, sometimes resting his head on Sam’s shoulder, murmuring his name in a soft voice. The proximity is still something that surprises Sam. He and Dean were raised by John Winchester, after all, in a men’s world where the closest thing to a comforting touch was a rough pat on the back. It must have been something Sam and Dean both missed because, if he’s honest with himself, Sam likes those cuddling moment as much as Dean does.

The nurse who comes to visit is a tiny woman in her late twenties with dark skin and big brown eyes. Her name is Emma. Sam likes her immediately. He’s not ready to trust her, but he likes her. The first time, she asks Sam a lot of questions, but doesn’t ignore Dean who’s in the living room with them, refusing to look at her and groaning from time to time like he wants to make it clear that he doesn’t approve of meeting someone new. She leaves her questions open, as if Dean will suddenly step up and give his opinion. According to her resume, Emma has worked with disabled people since she graduated from nursing school. She’s very at ease with all Dean’s specificities and had arrived with the file the hospital sent the agency memorized. While she’s there, she takes Dean’s arterial tension and his other vital signs, speaking to him all the while although Dean keeps his head turned toward Sam.

Sam agrees with her that she should come back in two days, giving Dean a chance to get used to her. For now, she will be the only nurse at the agency responsible for Dean. Later, if Dean needs more hours, maybe they’ll introduce someone else.

The worst part of this first week, though, is Dean’s visit to the hospital. It’s the first time he’s left the house in five days and he’s not happy about it, but when Sam rolls his wheelchair down the big hall, Dean finally realizes where they are. He turns his head to try to see Sam, his features quickly crumbling. Two big tears slide down his cheeks – geez, Dean’s tears are always so big sometimes Sam wonders if it’s because he spent all those years holding them back.

“Hey, Dean, it’s just for an hour. I’m not bringing you back here. We have a home, now, remember?”

Sam doesn’t know how much Dean understands, which is so frustrating because he hates to upset him. Although Dean seems to obey simple commands, it’s more like a reflex born out of habit than anything else. As for the rest, Dean’s way of understanding the world is still a mystery to Sam, although he knows it must be a scary place.

The physical therapy session doesn’t go well. Dean can’t concentrate on anything, following Sam with his eyes and refusing down right to work with Nathalie, tensing his muscles as much as he can. 

“Well,” she says philosophically, “at least we know he’s opposing consciously. He isn’t happy about being here and he’s showing me. That's progress.”

Nathalie is one of the most patient people Sam has ever known. Dean is still lying on his back on the mattress, trying to push her away with his arms even though he can’t quite reach her. She still smiles encouragingly at Sam. “I bet you don’t let anyone push you around, Dean Smith,” she tells him, backing off in surrender.

“You got that right,” Sam answers with a bit of sadness, thinking about all the times Dean went in guns blazing, punching his way through life and not letting anyone come between him and his goals.

“This is his first time back since he got out, let’s give him a break,” Nathalie adds. “As long as he works with you every day.”

“He does.”

“Sammy,” Dean complains impatiently, lifting his hands toward Sam. 

“Yeah, we’re done.”

Dean falls asleep as soon as the Impala starts rolling, like he understands, finally, that they are going back home.

::: :::

After that first week, it’s easier for Sam now that he and Dean and have a routine. He would be lying if he didn’t admit to feeling a little trapped sometimes, but he keeps telling himself that it’s temporary. Dean will get better and, eventually, he’ll get to know Emma well enough to be left with her from time to time.

Dean experiences the same feelings as Sam. It takes him a few more days, but he becomes accustomed to their quiet life. He eats and sleeps better. He also starts to try and use his hands more. A couple of times, he even goes to grab his glass of water on his own and, when Sam helps him, he groans in frustration. It’s progress nevertheless. Dean has lost a lot of his fine motor skills and, since he woke up, he hasn't shown any signs of getting them back spontaneously. It’s still early in his occupational therapy to really see a difference, but Dean is trying and that's something to be thankful for.

::: :::

Dean says his second word on January third. The circumstances surrounding this important event aren’t what Sam would have hoped for, far from it.

It happens during a quiet day, with a visit from Emma. Sam leaves Dean with her for ten minutes while he goes outside to shovel some snow out of their alley. Dean says his name and looks around the whole time, but he accepts help from Emma to drink a glass of water. “He even looked at me when he though I wouldn't notice,” she tells Sam afterward while Dean smiles widely at the reappearance of his brother. 

Dean goes to bed early. Despite his two daily naps, he starts yawning and rubbing at his eyes around eight thirty every evening. Sam takes him into the bathroom and brushes his teeth while Dean groans, mouth full of foaming toothpaste. He hates having his teeth brushed and, despite Sam’s effort to do it as softly as possible, most of the time, Dean ends up leaving his mouth open and letting the mix of saliva and toothpaste slide down his chin. He stays seated on the closed toilet lid while Sam brushes his own teeth, grimacing and smacking his lips to chase away the minty taste.

Sam then takes him to his room, changes him into a clean diaper and a pair of pj’s. While he gets rid of the soiled diaper and puts the dirty clothes in the laundry basket, Dean settles in his bed. He doesn’t pull back the covers or move on his own yet, but as soon as he’s seated, he usually manages to lie down and will remain very still until Sam comes back and pulls the blankets up to his chin. Dean always waits for Sam to get into his own pajamas and lie on his bed before he starts twisting and shifting until he’s comfortable. Most of the time, he squirms around to lie on his side facing Sam.

The first few days, Sam would lie with him until Dean was asleep, then get up to spend a couple of hours on his own in the house, relaxing or surfing the net, sometimes getting ahead of some household chores he hadn’t had time to do during the day, but not anymore. He finds himself as tired as his brother. He reads a little in bed and turns off the bedside lamp as soon as Dean closes his eyes. Sam sleeps well and soundly these days. Normally, Dean will wake him up around six thirty, grunting and moaning his name to get his damp diaper changed.

Not that night. No, what wakes Sam up is a scream of distress. He sits abruptly, fumbles in the dark to find the lamp switch and blinks under the light.

“Dean?”

Sam rubs at his eyes. It takes him some time to get accustomed to the sudden brightness and all he can see is a shifting bundle of blankets on Dean’s bed. There is another desperate scream and Sam stands up when he sees that his brother is still sleeping, fighting his sheets fiercely, all of his muscles taut like he’s fighting something.

Dean has had nightmares before, but nothing close to this. He sometimes mumbles in his sleep and wakes up in the middle of the night, looking scared and confused, but he goes back to sleep almost immediately afterward. Not this time.

Sam sits on his brother’s bed and calls his name, tries his best to wake him up by shaking his shoulders and touching his face softly, careful not to scare him more than he already seems to be.

It takes some time, enough for Sam to start panicking. Dean cries his name in despair, holding his hands awkwardly in front of him, likes he wants to protect himself from something that's attacking him.

Sam doesn’t even want to imagine what Dean is dreaming about, but it’s unbearable. He puts his hand on Dean’s quivering chest. “Dean, wake up,” he shouts, startling his brother who stops moving all of a sudden.

Dean’s breathing is ragged, his face covered in sweat, his hair damp with it. He blinks and opens eyes full of unshed tears.

“No,” he rasps. “No, Sam no, no no!”

Dean looks around himself and tries to grab Sam’s t-shirt, but his hands are shaking too much. Sam helps him sit and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “It’s a dream, Dean. See? You’re here with me, it’s over now.”

“Sam no!” Dean protests, turning his head to shove it in the crook of Sam’s neck. He warps both of his arms around Sam’s waist and bursts out crying, repeating Sam’s name and “no” between sobs.

“It’s alright, it’s okay, I’m safe. We both are. You’re okay, Dean,” Sam murmurs, rubbing circles on his back.

What are Dean’s dreams made of? Does he remember anything of his previous life? Does he remember Meg violating his body, his mind, taking control? Does he still have reminiscent thoughts about protecting his brother, making his father proud?

Their life has been what nightmares are made of and it’s terrifying, thinking that Dean, stripped of all his defenses, can still remember pieces of it.

Maybe not, Sam tries to reassure himself. Maybe he just dreams of being abandoned by some tall guy called Sam who takes care of him on a daily basis. Maybe he dreams of being alone and helpless.

It doesn’t make him feel any better.

It takes a long time for Dean to calm down. When he finally stops crying, Sam extricates himself from his embrace to go get him a glass of water and a wet washcloth. By the time he gets back to the room, Dean is trying to stand up and go after him, still looking scared out of his mind.

The only way to get him back to sleep is to lie down next to him. Dean clings to Sam like he's a life preserver and he's far out to sea, his body still wracked by intermittent shivers. He murmurs his newly reacquired word, “no”, until he’s too tired to do it anymore and falls asleep from exhaustion.


	9. Chapter 9

_Peoria, February 2_

“S-ssam…”

Sam groans and shoves his head under his pillow. He almost succeeds in going back to sleep when he hears it again, in an impatient tone this time. “Saam-my.”

“Yeah, Dean, give me a minute.”

“Sammy.”

“Dean. I’m awake, I’m-“

“Sam.”

Sam sighs and throws his pillow on the floor, then sits up and rubs at his eyes. Sure enough, Dean is sitting up too, playing with the elastic waistband of his pajama pants.

“Alright, alright,” Sam yawns and shakes his head. It’s six o’clock and Dean has had a good night of sleep –no night terrors, they tend to happen in blocks of two or three days in a row, then they leave Dean alone for a while. 

Nevertheless, Sam has felt constantly tired, especially over the last week. Dean is improving faster now. He sleeps less, needs more attention, and Sam has close to no time to himself, whether it is to clean the house or to just sit and take a breath or two.

“Sam. Awake.” 

“I’m up, I’m up,” Sam smiles at Dean. Whenever his brother uses a word, it’s a small victory. According to Dr. Langdon, the neuropsychologist, who Dean now sees once a week, Dean is using a strategy called echolalia: he repeats what he hears. The meaning of the words and sentences has yet to come to him. His brain has to make new connections to fix the zones that have been damaged. For now, Dean understands a few words, sentences he hears on a daily basis, and sometimes succeeds in communicating by using echolalia. He has also learned to point to things and use his body language to express what he needs. The occupational therapy sessions are very helpful, although Dean’s movements are still clumsy and uncertain, he’s slowly learning to use his hands again, like right now as he tugs on the edge of his diaper and wiggles uncomfortably, pointing at the small chest of drawers that holds everything Sam needs to change him.

“I know, dude, let me get it,” Sam rasps, stepping on the cold floor tiles and shivering. 

Dean lays back down and lifts his hips by pushing with his feet, legs bent toward himself. Sam gets him into a clean diaper, examining the skin for any signs of redness or sore spots. 

When he looks up, fastening the new diaper, he sees that Dean is covering his face with one arm. This is a new thing, hasn’t been going on for more than two days. Dean gets self-conscious enough to be embarrassed and although it can definitely be seen as an improvement, it hurts something deep inside of Sam and he wishes he could make Dean understand than none of this is important, that he doesn’t care that he has to wipe his ass every day, that the fact that Dean is there, alive, fighting so hard to get his life back, is all that matters.

“Dean it’s okay, it’s not your fault,” he tries once more. “You’ve been very sick. Do you get that?”

Dean groans and refuses to look at Sam.

Sam sighs. Will this be a good day or a bad day? He can’t know for sure. He grabs Dean’s thick robe from on top of a chair and smiles at him. “Come on, let’s get breakfast.”

Sam helps Dean up with one hand. According to Nathalie, Dean could walk on his own if he wanted to. Sam holding his hands is a security blanket. He had begun to use only one a few days ago, despite Dean’s initial refusal. Dean would hold the hand Sam offered to him and try to grab the other one, looking outraged, which was kind of funny. He quickly surrendered, though. His stance is more solid now. He still holds onto Sam’s hand very tightly as they make their way to the kitchen, but Sam has no doubts that this is purely psychological.

Recently, they'd changed their routine. Sam had come to realize that Dean is way more cooperative if he eats before he takes his shower. He should have figured it out from the beginning, knowing Dean. His brother’s appetite is getting better, but putting enough food in him so that he can gain some weight is still a priority. 

In the kitchen, even before he sits down, Dean points to the coffeemaker. His stomach grumbles.

“Yeah, coffee first, I know,” Sam agrees, helping him into his chair.

“C-augh…” Dean mumbles.

“Coffee, Dean.”

“Dee.”

Sam freezes on the spot, pot of coffee in his hands. “Dean, that’s right,” he says softly. “That’s your name.”

It’s the first time Dean has tried to say it. Sam smiles brightly as he puts a towel around Dean’s neck. “Dude, you said your name. That’s pretty awesome.”

Dean blushes and keeps his eyes down, but there is a slight smile quirking his lips. Today is going to be a good day, Sam decides.

Dean eats well. The occupational therapist, Mandy, has given Sam a big cup with handles so his brother can drink without help. It’s basically a sippy cup for an adult. The young woman had seen the look on Sam’s face that first time she showed it to him. “I know how it looks, Sam, but we’re not trying to treat him like a child, we’re just giving him the tools he needs to progress. That's how you have to look at this.”

Sam can’t deny how proud Dean is every time he uses the cup, both of his hands holding the handle in a death grip. He drinks his orange juice without spilling too much and eats his piece of toast without Sam’s help. He still doesn't have the dexterity required to eat with a spoon or a fork but he’s improved enough to use his hands. 

The coffee is ready. Sam fills two mugs and pours a little bit of cold water into Dean’s. He’s not ready to let Dean try the sippy cup with a hot beverage despite his brother’s displeasure and impatience. 

While Dean waits for his caffeine to cool down a little bit, Sam cuts him an apple and opens his laptop. He’s made a schedule for Dean because of his numerous appointments at the hospital and the home visits from Emma. 

“Okay, what do we have today…”

Dean doesn’t listen. He chews on an apple slice and stares at his coffee with determination.

“We were supposed to go in for occupational therapy, but they had to cancel so we’ll stay home,” Sam says out loud.

According to Dr. Murphy, Dean is ready to work on a higher intellectual level. New problems have emerged as he has started to become more present.

Dean dreams.

According to his doctor, Dean dreams of his life before the accident and is having trouble coming to terms with it. Of course, Alex Murphy doesn’t know what Dean’s life had been made of before. He says it happens with patients like him, that their memories come back but they can’t analyze them, can’t even understand them because they don't have the essential mental tools. More often than not, those memories will come back while they sleep, putting the patients in great distress.

Sam knows all too well what this means on those nights when he has to hold Dean while he kicks and screams, unable to stop crying during long minutes that seem like hours. When it’s too bad, he gets Dean to swallow an anxiolytic, prescribed by his doctor for these kinds of situations. Dean’s night terrors leave them both exhausted and, the morning after, he will be apathetic and uncooperative, will often cry without reason –at least, no apparent reason- and will refuse to let Sam leave his side. Those are the bad days. They’re bad for both of them.

But not today.

“After lunch, we’re going to take a walk. It’s not too cold outside,” Sam tells Dean, putting the straw in his coffee mug.

Dean licks his lips and stares at it. He hates walking outside in the cold but, for now, he’s almost ecstatic as Sam moves the straw to his lips.

::: :::

Dean groans and mumbles a litany of “No” while Sam ties his parka hood tightly around his face. With the scarf wrapped around his neck, all that’s visible is Dean’s fierce eyes and flaring nostrils.

“It’s not that cold today and it’s snowing, Dean. We’ll have a nice time.”

Dean grumbles once again but follows Sam outside, letting his brother pull him along slowly by the arm. 

Dean has to improve his endurance and walking outside is a hundred times better than in the house or the physical therapy lab. There is another reason why these walks are necessary, according to Dean’s neuropsychologist. He needs to reconnect with his environment, with people, needs to start understanding that his world can’t be reduced to Sam, their home and the hospital. 

Last week, Sam had taken him grocery shopping in the morning since it was quieter at that time of day. They'd had to get out of there ten minutes after they'd walked inside. Dean had been on the verge of having a panic attack, breathing hard and fast while trying to cover his eyes and ears at the same time. Once they were out, he burst out crying, looking at Sam with a mix of anger and indignation, as if to say, “Why would you do this to me?” 

This is something they still have to work on. “You guys must have been pretty close before,” Dr. Langdon had said. “It's ingrained deep in Dean, the fact that he can only count on you.”

“More the fact that we couldn’t count on anyone else, growing up,” Sam had answered. “Our father moved around a lot and… he was the survival-drill-sergeant kind of man.” That was as close as Sam could come to explaining some of Dean’s behavior. It was more acceptable than: _he’s scared of the things that go bump in the night. Because they exist, you know._

The walks outside are always short. Sam only goes to the end of the block because he wants to be sure Dean will be able to make it back home. Sometimes, they pass a neighbor who will nod and then turn to look the other way quickly. Sam hasn’t had the time to meet any of the people living nearby, and he’s sure there must be a lot of speculation about the two men, one of them visibly disabled, who have moved in recently.

True, Dean’s posture is a little strange. His stance is stiff, his free arm is always stretched out to the side and all that’s visible of his face is two scared eyes and the tip of his nose, pink from the cold. He looks like a kid, held prisoner by his winter clothes.

They barely make it halfway before Dean suddenly comes to a halt, mumbling something behind his scarf. He’s staring at a long naked maple tree to his right.

“Dean, what?”

Dean mumbles again. Sam sighs. Sometimes during their walks Dean can become difficult. “Come on, dude, it’s not getting any warmer.”

He tugs on Dean’s hand, but his stubborn brother refuses to move. He turns his head and looks at Sam fiercely while pointing his free arm in the direction of the tree, more or less.

Sam sighs once more and lowers Dean’s scarf, revealing a huffing, exasperated sound that comes out of his mouth in a puff of grey vapor.

“What, Dean, it’s a tree, alright?”

“A…” Dean’s mouth quirks in a grimace and his face gets redder. “B-b-bird!” He finally spits. “Bird in the tree!” He adds, screaming two inches away from Sam’s face.

Then he freezes, his mouth gaping open. Sam tries to shake off his own shock long enough to see if there really is a bird in the damn tree. And there is, a tiny thing jumping from branch to branch. It suddenly flies by, over their heads, as if it had realized, somehow, that it was the center of attention. Sam then follows Dean’s gaze. His brother blinks toward the sky, his eyes clear in the pale landscape.

“Bird,” Dean murmurs, a smile quirking his lips up.

He knows what he’s just accomplished, even if he can’t really understand the depth of it. Sam does. This has nothing to do with echolalia, nothing at all. This is Dean forming a sentence, spontaneously, without Sam’s help. Dr. Murphy has told Sam numerous times that progress in a damaged brain never follows a perfectly rising chart. More often than not, it’s a series of jumps, and what just happened is one hell of a jump.

“Cold,” Dean says, looking straight at Sam.

“Okay, okay,” Sam literally beams with pride. “Now that you can talk, I’ll never hear the end of it, right?”

“Cold,” Dean repeats with stubbornness. 

Sam keeps on smiling and his brother frowns at him, looking vaguely insulted.

::: :::

Dean doesn’t miraculously starts talking after that day, but there is definitely an improvement. It tires him, but he keeps trying, blurting out parts of sentences or repeating words Sam hasn’t said just before. When they get back from their walk, Dean says, “nap” continuously until Sam takes him to the bedroom. At dinnertime, Dean says “m’cup,” pointing at the large sippy cup waiting for him on the counter. 

He’s so tired from it all that Sam has to put him to bed before eight. He says “good night,” like he does every night. But this time, Dean, making a visible effort to stay awake despite his tiredness, blurts out, “Nite, Sammy.”

Sam stays stoic until his brother is fast asleep. Then he cries, as silently as he can, from relief and gratitude. 

They both sleep well that night.

::: :::

The next week is a busy one. It’s like being able to talk again has unlocked something in Dean’s brain. For the first time since waking up from his coma, Dean starts moving on his own without Sam’s hand. The day after their walk, as he and Sam are watching TV, Dean’s face reddens and he stands up without even looking at Sam. Sam follows him, dumbstruck, doesn't even try to say his name for fear of stopping him. 

Dean walks very slowly, head shaking from left to right as he always does when he’s anxious, and stops on the threshold of the bathroom. The door is open.

“What is it, Dean?” Sam asks softly.

“No, Sam,” Dean replies pressing his hand on Sam’s chest like he wants to push him away.

There is a faint smell of ammonia filling Sam’s nostrils and suddenly he gets it. Dean needed to pee and somehow wanted to do it in the bathroom. 

“You need a change?” 

Dean groans, takes a few steps and looks at the toilet for a long time. 

“I understand, I do,” Sam coaxes him. “We’ll get you in a clean diaper.”

They don’t always change him in the bedroom anymore. Dean is in better shape and he can hold on to the bathroom sink while Sam lowers his pants and changes him. It’s easier and quicker this way.

When Sam is done, he pulls Dean’s pants up and looks at his brother, surprised to see him looking back, his lips reduced to a thin line, his eyes literally gleaming with anger. “No,” Dean states.

Which, given how he’s been progressing for the last few days, should have prepared Sam for what was going to happen less than a week later. For now, though, all Sam can think is how great it is that Dean is finally starting to move on his own, and how scary. What if he wakes up in the middle of the night and starts wandering around the house? What if he hurts himself? What if he falls and can’t get up?

Dean getting better means Sam’s life is getting a whole lot more complicated, but he wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.

::: :::

At his appointment with his neuropsychologist, Dean names all the cards that the doctor shows him. It isn’t the first time they've done this exercise, but usually Dean points as Dr. Langdon, a very pretty woman in her early fifties, names the image. She smiles and congratulates him when he blurts out “apple” with the last image. Sam, sitting silently in a corner like he always does, is smiling as wildly as the doctor. 

“You’re doing great, Dean,” Dr. Langdon says. 

Dean blushes and lowers his head. He still has trouble looking people in the eyes. Even with Emma, his nurse, whom he sees at least twice a week. Eye contact is reserved for Sam.

Dr. Langdon is about to take the picture away when Dean tries to grab it. “Apple,” he repeats.

“Yes, it is. Do you like apples, Dean?”

Dean nods, than shakes his head. He bites his bottom lip as a fine trickle of saliva escapes his mouth. “Pie,” he grunts. “Apple p-pie.”

“Oh, really? Well I guess Sam knows what to buy for desert today.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Think you’re so cute, right, Dean Winchester?” He jokes, standing up to get closer, wrapping his hand around Dean’s shoulders. “We had apple pie yesterday.”

“Again,” Dean mumbles, blushing even redder.

“This is a conversation, do you realize?” Dr. Langdon tells Sam, something like wonder making her eyes shine. “It’s a huge step.”

“Apple pie again,” Dean repeats.

Sam’s burst of laughter makes him jump, then he smiles, so wide his eyes crinkle. There is no doubt there will be apple pie on the dinner table again that night.

::: :::

On the night of February 8, Dean has his first night terror in two weeks. Sam guesses he should have known. The day had been a difficult one. He'd gone through a double appointment at the hospital: occupational therapy, then physical. Sam also thinks he might be coming down with something. There aren’t any symptoms yet but Dean has this glassy look that Sam remembers from before, one of the clues he has learned to read over the years to know how his brother is feeling because of course, according to Dean, he was always fine, even when he was burning with fever or coughing up a lung in the bathroom with the water running in the futile hope that Sam wouldn’t hear him.

Sam gives him some Tylenol before he puts him to bed. Dean makes a fuss, but finally swallows them, grimacing like a kid. Hopefully, it won’t be anything serious and a good night of sleep will take care of it.

Dean sleeps until midnight. Sam knows, because he himself can’t, for the life of him, go to sleep. He feels strangely wired, nervous. He knows why when Dean starts moaning, then trashing in his bed, all caught up in his sheets and blankets. Sam’s premonitions and nightmares are mostly gone now that Yellow Eyes is dead, but sometimes he still has hunches.

He’s out of his bed in an instant and kneeling on Dean’s. He’s learned that the longer Dean stays trapped in his nightmare, the harder it is to calm him down afterward.

There is one thing Sam hasn’t thought through, though, and it’s the fact that now Dean can express himself. Eyes closed shut and mouth quirked by a pained grimace, he doesn’t keep saying “no” and “Sammy” this time. He cries, “No, please stop, don’t! Don’t!”

“Fuck, Dean,” Sam curses, taking his brother by the shoulders.

Dean fights his grip, but Sam doesn’t let go. He traps Dean’s legs between his own and yells Dean’s name. “Wake up,” he adds, shaking him a little harder than usual. It’s unbearable, hearing Dean pleading for it to stop hurting, that it hurts so bad, and then yelling, screaming for Sam. 

Then suddenly his eyes snap open, wild, terrified. He blinks, completely still. His slim body is drenched with sweat, his hair as well. He coughs wetly, takes a shuddering breath and weakly grabs Sam’s shirt.

“Hey, it’s okay, just a bad dream,” Sam pants, short of breath.

“Dad,” Dean croaks. 

“What?”

“Dad… blood. Too much. Blood.”

_Oh god._

Dean bursts out crying. Sam will never get used to this. How raw and always close to the surface his brother’s feelings are. Dr. Langdon says that it’s something often seen in brain damaged patients, they have trouble sorting and controlling their emotions. They can’t quantify or sort them out. It's something they have to learn to do again and, since Dean is so anxious, it will be a long way to go for him.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam coaxes, carefully releasing his grip on his brother. “I’m sorry. You remember everything, right? You remember everything.”

Dean isn't really listening to him but it’s okay, it’s more like a self-assessing revelation. Of course, somewhere deep down, Sam has always known. This is the source of Dean’s constant anxiety, Dean’s need to have Sam near him all the time, Dean’s natural suspicion about everyone else.

Having his brother expressing it, though, is a whole new game. Sam feels guilty to wish, for a moment, that Dean would never remember, or realize completely, how hard and abnormal his previous life had been.

“It’s okay, you’re okay, we both are,” Sam murmurs, letting Dean cuddles against him like he wants to disappear. “We’re safe now.”

“Sam don’t,” Dean hiccups, “Too much. Dean is… Enough, too much blood.”

“Yes, enough. For a lifetime,” Sam agrees. “I’ll get you something to help you calm down okay?”

It takes a couple more minutes before Sam can leave the room without Dean’s cries doubling in intensity and, when he finally can, he does it quickly, grabs an anxiety pill, a glass of water and a warm towel.

Dean is docile and apathetic afterward. He lets the pill melt under his tongue like he’s supposed too and doesn’t even seem to realize Sam is changing is diaper and putting him in fresh sleeping clothes. He helps as he does usually but it’s mechanical. He doesn’t say another word.

Sam pulls off his own stinking shirt and slides under the cover beside his brother, tugging him close to him. Dean shivers but finally settles, breathing hard and fast in the crook of Sam’s neck.

“You know what, Dean?” Sam whispers in the dim light of the moon. “It’s over. There's no need to be scared anymore. We have a home. No more monsters or demons, alright? And I’m here, see, I’m here with you. I won’t let anything happen to you. I won’t, I swear.”

He keeps babbling until his mouth gets dry and Dean is snoring softly against his skin. Then he keeps going, to reassure himself.

::: :::

The next day is a really bad day. Sam fears all the progress Dean has made in the last week is gone. His brother doesn’t talk, doesn’t do anything by himself and barely eats. In the afternoon, when Emma arrives, Dean starts crying and saying Sam’s name. Sam knows he won’t be able to leave him. Despite Emma’s efforts, Dean holds onto Sam for dear life and refuses to even acknowledge her presence.

“It’s okay, he’s had a bad night,” Sam resigns himself. “I knew he wouldn’t be thrilled to see me go. I should’ve cancelled.”

Emma understands. She’s been great with Dean so far and Sam, although there is still work to do from his part, has come to trust her, at least partially. She still stays for a little while and shares a coffee with them. She doesn’t ask about Dean’s bad dream. Sam is glad.

Around dinner, Dean comes partially back from his apathy. He smiles when he sees that Sam is making chili and eats at least half of his bowl. Afterward, he’s a little chattier. He even stands up while Sam is doing the dishes and joins him at the counter, waiting there, humming a Metallica song. He doesn’t fuss when it’s time to go to bed. Sam bends over him to bring the comforter up against his chin. 

“Good night, Dean.”

“No dream Dean,” Dean articulates slowly, looking at Sam with conviction in his eyes.

“That’s right, no dreams,” Sam agrees. 

“Enough,” Dean goes on. “No dream.”

“Fuck, I wish I could promise you that it won’t happen again.”

“Fuck,” Dean repeats, yawning.

“Well, there it is, your first bad word and it’s “fuck”, of course.” 

“Fuck. Of course…” Dean slurs, making Sam laugh despite his worry. 

His brother’s eyes are already closing.


	10. Chapter 10

_Peoria, February 12_

It will be the second time Bobby has come to visit since they'd settled in their small home and, although Sam is definitely happy to see him, he’s also nervous. Dean has progressed a lot since Bobby last saw him at the beginning of January, but there's no telling how his brother will react to seeing their old friend. Now that Dean is definitely more aware of himself and of the people surrounding him, now that he dreams frequently about his life from before, what will Bobby’s presence do to him? Will it trigger some new memory that still doesn’t make sense to him? Sam has already warned Bobby that there would be no speaking about hunting whatsoever, at least not while Dean is with them, but will it be enough?

He’s dressed Dean in a soft pair of jeans and a clean shirt instead of his usual sweatpants and Henley. He doesn’t even know why. _You don’t have anything to prove to Bobby, he’s not your damn father,_ Sam admonishes himself. 

Sitting at the kitchen table, cleaned up from his lunch, with his too long hair combed to the side, Dean is annoyed. He keeps tugging on the sleeves of his shirt and squirming.

“Don’t like,” he tells Sam for the tenth time since getting dressed, now pulling at the waist of his jeans.

“Come on, Dean, it’s nice to be well dressed sometimes. You used to wear jeans all the time.”

Dean shakes his head and tries a new tactic. “Tired. Dean sleeps.”

“Not now.” Sam puts away the last of the dishes he just cleaned and sits at the table in front of his brother. Dean is nervous, because Sam is nervous. _Get yourself together, man._

“Remember what I told you? Bobby is coming. That was him on the phone, he’s close. He’s really eager to see you.”

Dean looks out the window and takes a long, shuddering breath. “Bobby Singer,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“Friend.”

“That’s right. You remember Bobby, right?”

Dean bites his lips, still looking out the window. “Bobby’s our friend. Dean remembers.”

The rumble of a car can be heard getting closer. Dean’s head snaps up and his eyes go wide. “Sam,” he pleads, pressing his hands together.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s just a little visit. No need to be nervous. Come on, we’ll go to welcome him at the door.”

Dean won’t move unless Sam takes his hand and, even then, he walks so close to Sam it’s actually hard to make their way to the door without both of them tripping over their intertwined feet.

Bobby is waiting on the other side of the door, same as ever, a very old and dirty cap lowered on his head.

“Boys,” he says, smiling a little while stepping in.

Dean shoves his head in the crook of Sam’s neck, something he does in public when he needs comfort. If Bobby finds it strange, it doesn’t show. He just closes the door behind him and shakes the hand Sam holds out to him.

“Hey Dean, it’s nice to see you,” he adds.

“Hi, Bobby,” Dean mumbles into Sam’s neck.

Bobby’s eyes widen. 

“I told you he was making progress,” Sam says. “Come on, Dean, you can look, it’s Bobby.”

With reluctance, Dean moves a little but keeps a death grip on Sam’s hand. He tries to look at the old hunter – it’s something they’ve been working on with Dr. Langdon lately - but soon enough, his eyes are on the floor, his cheeks a deep shade of red.

“So are we spending the afternoon in the entryway or are you guys going to offer me a beer?” Bobby jokes.

“No beer. Sam says no beer,” Dean replies quickly.

 _Yeah_ , Sam thinks, no beer. He used to keep some cold ones in the fridge just in case until Dean showed an interest in them. Whatever the effects alcohol could have on him, calming or not, Sam’s not about to get his brain-damaged brother drunk, so he got rid of them.

“Well, ain’t that great,” Bobby grimaces.

They go into the living room because Dean is always more relaxed when he’s settled in front of the TV. He’s been able to pay attention to what’s happening on the small screen for weeks now, and shows a clear preference for sitcoms, old series and soaps. Yeah, soaps. He can’t seem to handle something more serious or realistic, per se. One evening, there was a Clint Eastwood movie, an old western, and Sam thought Dean would like it. Nevertheless, at the first gun shot, Dean had put his hands in front of his face and moaned until Sam had changed the channel.

As soon as the TV is turned on and an old re-run of _Dr. Welby_ appears on the screen, Dean seems more at ease. He sits close to Sam on the couch, but doesn’t feel the need to hide himself from Bobby, who’s sitting in front of them in an old armchair. At first, the conversation is a little awkward between Sam and Bobby. Bobby isn’t one to make small chat and with his whole life hunt oriented, he obviously doesn’t know what else to talk about. Sam fills the silence, speaking about Dean’s progress, his nurse, his neuropsychologist, the exercises he does every day, what their lives are made of. Sometimes Dean will add a word or a sentence here and there without turning his eyes away from the TV. When Sam mentions Emma, Dean says, “Emma reads to Dean,” with a fond expression on his face. Dean might be a little enamored with his nurse. Sam knows better than to tease him about it, though.

Bobby doesn’t say much, but it’s okay, Sam hadn’t expected him to. After half an hour or so, Dean starts yawning, blinking heavily at the TV.

“You tired, Dean?”

Dean nods. “Take a nap.”

“Alright. Bobby, make yourself at home, I’ll be back.”

Dean can now go to sleep without Sam remaining in the room with him. Sam makes quick work of taking his pants off and changing his diaper. Dean mumbles, “stinks” and hides his face behind his arm. The whole diaper thing is starting to be really problematic, Sam thinks, but according to the people at the hospital, Dean’s incontinence isn’t something they should work on right now. It's very frustrating for Dean though. What’s the difference, Sam sometimes asks himself. He’s already frustrated and humiliated by it.

Maybe it’s Sam who's too scared to go through training his brother to use the toilet again. Maybe sticking with the diaper routine makes his life easier. He doesn’t like that thought and pushes it away.

“You rest now, Dean.”

“Yes,” Dean agrees, tucking into a small ball under the comforter.

Sam leaves the door ajar and joins Bobby in the living room. The old hunter has taken his cap off and is staring into nothingness.

“He’ll sleep for a couple of hours,” Sam announces.

“Good. It’s… Sam, gotta say I’m impressed. You seem to have really made things work here for both of you.”

“We have,” Sam sighs. “We’re doing good.”

“And you don’t ever get tired, or feel like moving, get out and live a little?”

“I don’t,” Sam replies quickly, not realizing his tone is defensive suddenly.

“Dean looks better.”

“Yes, he is. Especially since he started talking.”  
“Do his doctors know if he’ll remain that way?”

Sam frowns. “What way?”

Bobby blushes and puts his cap back on his head. “Well… Ya know, childlike.”

“He’s not childlike.”

“He ain't acting like an adult either.”

“Fuck, Bobby, why would you say something like that to me? Do you know how hard it is for him to get better? Each little step takes so much out of him and he still tries. Have I told you he dreams? Wakes up screaming his lungs out because he sees things… Things from our fucked up life from before. He remembers and still he fights with everything he's got to get better-“

“Sam, you’re gonna upset him, lower your voice,” Bobby coaxes.

Sam stops suddenly, realizing how tense he is; his hands are closed into fists, blood is pounding behind his eyes and he’s angry. Damn, he feels it like a tight knot inside his chest.

“I ain’t trying to pick a fight with you, boy,” Bobby goes on, voice as soft as a murmur. “M’worried, ‘s all. Things are happening out there, Sam.”

Sam lowers his voice to a whisper. “I don’t wanna know, Bobby. What can we do anyway? Dean and me, we’re done with hunting, you get that, don't you?”

Bobby shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean hunting is done with you boys.”

Sam stands up, exasperated. He knows he’s being unfair to Bobby, he knows this. The man is worried about them. Still, he feels like Bobby is an intruder, wanting to burst the fragile bubble Sam has built up for Dean and himself.

“Whatever happens, Bobby, Dean can’t hunt and I sure as hell won’t leave him with somebody to take care of whatever is happening.”

“Azazel. That’s the name of the yellow eyed demon that killed your momma,” Bobby goes on like Sam hasn’t said anything. “And there's something going on, with kids like you-“

Something like panic makes it’s way through Sam’s body, like all of his blood has suddenly been replaced with ice. 

“Stop.”

“Sam-“

“I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know anything, Bobby. What do you want me to do? Fuck, I… This life, hunting, this is why Dean is like he is, this is why his greatest achievement at the end of the day is to be able to drink from a freaking sippy cup! Are we in danger?”

“Not that I know of, Bobby replies,” as calm as ever. “But I’d feel better if you boys would come live with me. That way if something-“

“No way. Going to your place means having to deal with hunting again, you know that. It’s not personal, Bobby, but this house is safe and it’s our home. And that’s how I can protect Dean. That’s how things are going to go. Damn it, I thought you came to see him, to see how he was doing but-“

Bobby loses his temper, and it’s sudden. He snaps, standing up and walking straight into Sam’s space, a few inches away from him, and Sam feels like a kid all over again, like the damn frustrated kid he once was.

“God help me, Sam, I’m going to act as if you didn't just say that to me because you boys are like my own and all I do is worry about you. Just ‘caus I don't visit as often as I want doesn’t mean I’m not looking out for you. You’re vulnerable, both of you are, and if something happens I’ll never forgive myself. Demons are out there and-”

“We’re okay, Bobby, we’re-“

“Sammy.”

Damn it.

Sam turns his head to see Dean standing awkwardly behind them, wearing nothing but a tee-shirt, his diaper and socks. His lower lip is trembling and he looks so young, so utterly vulnerable, legs bowed and hair stuck to the side of his head and it hurts Sam, physically hurts him to know that Bobby is seeing him like this.

“It’s okay Dean, go back to bed, alright?”

Sam takes a step toward Dean, but he shakes his head softly and lets himself slide to the floor. “Deee-mon,” he rasps, looking around him. “Sam, no, Dean… I… no demon.”

Sam crouches next to him and takes his chin between his fingers, forcing his eyes up. “There aren't any demons here, Dean. We’re safe.”

“You’ mad.”

“Not I’m not. I’m not mad, not at all. Everything is okay, I swear.”

“Christo,” Dean murmurs.

He wraps his arms around Sam’s waist and lodges his head in the crook of his shoulder.

Sam keeps murmuring soothing words, repeating how safe they are, how Dean has nothing to fear, not anymore. He hears Bobby leave the room, then the front door opens and closes. He doesn’t try to stop the old hunter. Dean needs him. Bobby doesn’t. He can fix this, this discussion turned sour between them. Later. Right now…

“Dean, let’s go back to bed, okay? I’ll stay with you this time, what do you say?”

Dean nods without giving any sign of moving. Sam has to practically carry him back to the bedroom. He’s still angry, at Bobby and, most of all, at himself for reasons he can’t even start to understand.

Later that day, while Dean is watching TV after dinner, Sam makes a call from the bathroom, door closed to be sure his brother can’t hear him.

He gets Bobby’s voicemail. Babbles an apology, tries to explain how important it is for Dean’s recovery to be in a safe environment, with as little stress as possible.

He still feels like he’s justifying himself.

::: :::

Sam can’t shake off his bad mood after this, even though he tries his best not to show Dean how upset he is, his brother is far from being stupid. He gets more withdrawn, doesn't ask for something every five minutes or laugh while watching the TV. He looks at Sam, though, sometimes long enough to make Sam feel guilty. 

“M’fine, Dean," he says.

The expression Dean gives him clearly says that he doesn’t buy that bullshit.

On the morning of February 15, Sam wakes up to silence, which is unusual. He’s used to Dean’s gradually more insistent voice shortly after six, repeating his name until Sam has no choice but to get up.

Sitting abruptly, Sam discovers his brother sitting at the edge of his bed, both feet planted on the ground. His pajamas pants are crumpled around his ankles, he doesn’t have his diaper on. It’s sitting on the floor, open and smelling strongly of urine.

“Dean, what the hell?” Sam asks.

“No diaper,” Dean replies, turning his head away.

“I can see that.”

Sam groans and stands up, rubbing at his face. The smell seems too strong to be coming solely from the diaper and, even though it looks wet, there's something else.

Sam puts his palm on the bed’s fitted sheet and feels it wet and cold under his palm. “Damn it,” he curses. God knows he’s in no mood for this, not this morning. 

“Okay,” he sighs, “Why didn’t you wake me up before if your diaper leaked, Dean?”

Dean shivers but still refuses to look at Sam.

“Well,” Sam grabs him by the hands to help him stand up. When he tries to put Dean’s pants back on, he realizes they’re wet too. He curses again. “Shower, I guess."

Then he’ll have to clean the bed, and quickly before the odor of urine impregnates the mattress. It’s cold this morning and, peeking through the window, Sam sees that it’s snowing. Again. Which means more shoveling. His back is sore. That’s what happens when you sleep in a bed too small for you.

Sam grabs Dean’s robe and helps him dress, then takes him to the bathroom despite Dean’s resistance.

“First eat,” he mumbles, stopping on the threshold.

“Not this morning. Come on, Dean.”

They haven’t used the bath chair in two weeks now. Dean can stand on his own. Sam has replaced the chair, now tucked away in the basement, with a skid proof carpet. He asks Dean to take off the robe while he turns on the water and sets the temperature. 

When he turns back to take his own clothes off, Dean hasn’t moved yet. His teeth are chattering and he hasn’t taken off his robe.

“Dean, come on, I know you’re cold, but it will last all of two seconds,” Sam groans.

“Sam-“ Dean starts, moving from one foot to the other.

“Enough. I’m not in the mood.” 

Sam takes the robe off himself. Dean wraps his arms around himself and whines softly, but follows when Sam takes his hand and helps him into the shower, closing the curtain behind them.

“S’cold!” Dean protests, trying to get away from the spray.

And yes, maybe the water isn’t as hot as usual, but it’s six o’clock in the morning and Sam is tired, grumpy, and doesn’t feel like waiting for the old boiler to do its job, so he ignores Dean’s pleas and washes him thoroughly, trying not to let the chattering of his brother’s teeth or the hurt expression in his eyes distract him. After he’s done, he quickly washes himself, hoping it’ll do some good, at least calm him down, wake him up a little, but no. Because Dean keeps saying he’s cold, keeps trying to get out of the shower by himself and Sam’s had it.

“Dean I swear to god if you don’t stop right now I’ll…”

Sam stops. He’ll do what? What the hell has gotten into him? Dean isn’t responsible for his bad mood, for his argument with Bobby. Dean is just…

_Dean, a voice completes in Sam’s mind. Your crippled, childlike brother. That’s all that’s left of the man he used to be._

Back in the room, still shivering even tucked in a thick towel, Dean sits silently on Sam’s bed while his brother grabs yesterday’s clothes and dresses rapidly before he takes the soiled sheets off the bed and cleans the plastic, fitted, mattress protector.

“I’ll make it later,” he murmurs to himself. 

He grabs clean clothes for Dean from the drawers and asks him to lie down on his bed, which Dean does, slower than usual but still.

“Lift your hips, Dean,” Sam says, getting a clean diaper ready.

Dean doesn’t.

“Dean, come on, lift your hips.”

“No diapers," Dean answers.

He’s laying very still on his back, naked as the day he was born, his skin covered in goose bumps, his lips a dark shade of purplish red.

“Yes, diaper. Come on, now, lift.”

“No. Diaper,” Dean repeats, with more intent this time.

Sam has had it. This is a bad, bad morning and he suddenly wishes he could be elsewhere, sitting alone in a coffee shop, reading a book, without anyone to care about or for.

Without waiting for Dean’s cooperation, he gets on the side of the bed and turns his brother’s body to one side, slipping the opened diaper under his ass, then rolls Dean onto his back again.

“No, Sam!” Dean cries, bending his legs and trying to get away.

Sam is quicker. He jumps on the bed and immobilizes Dean’s legs with his own. Dean groans and tries to free himself, but although he’s in better shape now, he doesn’t stand a chance.

Sam reaches for the other end of the diaper under Dean’s hips, then drags the part trapped between his legs up. Dean tries to kick, then to sit up, but he’s powerless.

“Will you stop it?” Sam cries, trying to fasten the diaper while keeping it in place.

“Sam stop, NO DIAPER!” Dean yells, propelling himself upward and trying to push Sam away.

“DEAN, STOP IT!” Sam answers just as loudly, feeling anger and frustration bubbling up his throat and taking control. Damn it, he can’t. Can’t do this anymore, he… “You need this, Dean!” He goes on screaming. “Fuck, you can’t hold it anymore and it’s not my fucking fault, do you get it? Not my fault so SUCK IT UP!”

Dean bursts out crying and Sam freezes, looking at his own hands grabbing his brother's hips way too hard where the diaper is fastened all wrong. He realizes how hard his legs are trapping Dean’s and wonders how much it must hurt, and if his fingers will leave marks on his brother’s pale skin.

Horror washes over him and he abruptly stands up while Dean, still crying, shuffles to the head of the bed. There, he curls in on himself, his chest shaken by uncontrollable sobs, his diaper too white and standing out like an atrocity.

“Oh god, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Dean,” Sam murmurs, brushing his hair away from his face.

Shame and disgust replace his previous anger. Sam is shaken by a violent shiver and realizes he’s crying as well. How could he do this? 

“Dean.”

Dean cries harder, hiding his head with his arms. _God._

Sam kneels on the bed and apologizes. He doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t want to touch his brother, fearing he’ll try to get away. He wishes he could go back, just ten minutes back, and-

In the end, it’s Dean who makes the decision for him. He gets as close as he can, then throws himself at Sam, hugging him tight, sobbing in his chest. Sam, who was hurting him a few minutes ago, who was yelling at him. This is the most devastating thing of all, Dean seeking him for comfort, like a dog licking the hand of the master who has just beaten him with a stick.

Sam sobs harder, and Dean hiccups between cries. “S’okay, Sammy, s’okay, we good,” something Sam has told him so many times in the last few months.

::: :::

Emma doesn’t mind moving her afternoon visit to that morning. She tells Sam she has to make some arrangements, then calls him back, saying she’ll be there in half an hour. She must sense something is wrong because she doesn’t ask questions.

During the phone conversation, Dean eats his breakfast: tiny, unenthusiastic bites. He looks at Sam with wide eyes, still rimmed red from all the crying.

“Dean, listen,” Sam says as softly as possible, sitting in front of his brother.   
“There is nothing to worry about. I just need a little time for myself, alright?”

Dean doesn’t like changes in his routine. Dean is scared, not of Sam, but of what Sam did, what it could mean. “You come back,” he says around a mouthful of toast. “You come back, Sam.”

“Of course I will. I promise, Dean. I wasn’t in a good mood this morning and I took it out on you. It was a bad thing for me to do, so I’m going out for a couple of hours. That’s all.”

“You come back,” Dean repeats, and Sam is close to tears all over again.

::: :::

Sam runs on the treadmill. The gym is almost empty, which is fine with him. He'd subscribed a month ago to try and regain some of his former physical shape. It helps.

So, Sam, his inner self says, because he can’t turn off his thoughts. He’s never been able to do so. You hurt you disabled, brain damaged brother. How do you feel about this?

Great. Sarcasm. Coming from him because Dean, Dean doesn’t do sarcasm anymore.

I miss you Dean, I miss you so damn much. I’m so sorry I can’t be a good brother, so sorry I’m a selfish son of a bitch who can’t…

_Hey, whoa. What’s with all the emo crap, Samantha?_

Dean’s voice is clear and vivid in Sam’s mind.

I miss you.

_Yeah well, you’ve got me. A version of me anyway. So what, you snapped? Think I’ve never snapped at you before? Hell, it’s been six months, six months of wiping your brother’s ass, feeding him, dealing with all this crap. Still think you’re not a good brother?_

Sam runs faster. Tears run down his cheeks.

You didn’t deserve this, Dean. Of all people, you… 

_What can you do? Shit happens. You’re doing good, Sammy. Give yourself a break. I know you love me, I know I can trust you, even if my brain is a mess and I drool like a fucking baby, I know all this._

Did I try too hard? Would you have preferred that I let you go instead of leading this life?

 _Sam. Hey, m’still your big brother. Could never have left you behind. Your sorry ass still needs me._ And in Sam’s head, Dean –the other Dean, the brother Sam has lost – smiles smugly. Dean pats Sam on the back. _Are we done with the touchy feely stuff, yet?_

Sam bursts out laughing through his tears. He runs until his heart beats so hard and fast it’s thundering in his ears, runs until he feels like himself again.

::: :::

Dean is sitting next to Emma on the couch when Sam comes back. She’s reading to him. They must be halfway through the first _Games of Thrones_ book. Sam sees him before Dean realizes he’s back. His brother isn't really listening, Sam can tell by the way his eyes keep wandering from left to right. He’s nervous, hands tucked together, biting his lower lip. He’s sitting closer to the nurse than usual, seeking comfort.

Sam’s throat tightens at the sight.

“Hey Dean.”

Dean’s head snaps up and he smiles, as wide as he can, the corner of his eyes crinkled. “Sammy‘s here,” he says in an awed tone of voice. Then he gets up and walks straight to Sam until he’s close enough to put a hand on his chest, blushing, like he wants to make sure Sam is really there.

Sam wraps an arm around his shoulders. “F’course I’m here.”

“He was so eager for you to come back,” Emma says, closing the book on her thighs. “Kept wandering around, looking out the window.”

“Looking for Sam,” Dean explains, tucking himself as much as he can against Sam’s body.

“Did something happen?” Emma asks. “He looked so upset. I took his vital signs, asked if he hurt somewhere, but he wasn’t very chatty.”

“Cookies,” Dean cuts her off, walking off to the kitchen.

Sam has no choice but to follow him. Dean can’t open the cookie jar by himself. Once he’s seated with three cookies in front of him and his cup full of milk, Sam takes Emma aside.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “Like I said, he was just nervous. Maybe it’s just the change in his routine.”

“No,” Sam blushes slightly, lowering his eyes. “We… I wasn’t in a good mood this morning and we had a fight. Kind of. He didn’t want to wear his diaper, and I yelled at him. I held him way too hard. I was an ass.”

Emma makes a “tsk tsk” sound, shaking her head. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sam. You’re a great caretaker. Everyone has his moments where everything seems difficult. Trust me, Dean is lucky to have you.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have to pay for my bad mood. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“Hey, I love coming here, you know that.”

Sam knows. Emma is a very affectionate woman and since Dean is used to her, he’s comfortable in her presence, is all shy smiles and red cheeks. When he knows she’s coming, he looks for her car through the window, repeating her name.

Once she’s gone, Sam takes a cookie for himself and sits in front of Dean who’s busy finishing his milk. Sam stretches out a hand and wipes the white mustache over his lip with his index finger.

“So, Dean, I get it, you don’t want to wear a diaper anymore.”

“No more diaper.” It’s half question, half affirmation.

“You do realize how much work we have ahead of us, right?”

“Right,” Dean nods seriously.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Right, no more diapers, I understand what I’m saying,” Dean blurts out, eager to let Sam know he's paying attention.

Sam smiles with affection. “You’re a piece of work, Dean Winchester.”

Dean nods again. There is a small piece of cookie left on his plate. His hand shakes as he tries to pick it up between his index and his thumb, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, eyebrows drawn in concentration. He finally succeeds and shoves the small bit into his mouth. 

“Good job, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Good job Dean.”

::: :::

They start slowly, but if Dean has ever shown determination to do something, it’s this. Sam wonders if he postponed the moment because he was scared of all the extra work, but that thought is so unpleasant he pushes it back, way, way to the back of his mind.

Dean’s bowel movements have always been regular, even more so since they moved into their small house. That’s the easy part. Dean had already developed the habit of going somewhere to hide when he knew his intestines were about to function, blushing in shame afterward when he went back to Sam asking to be changed. It’s not hard getting from there to him telling Sam he has to use the toilet. He doesn’t even want his brother with him in the bathroom, just calls when he’s done.

There are many more incidents with urinating. Sometimes Dean will warn Sam too late and wet his underwear, then he’ll get angry, or he’ll cry, despite Sam’s reassurances. At first, he wants to pee standing up, but it turns out to be hazardous. He isn’t coordinated enough to stand up and aim. He fights it at first, but Sam makes him understand that he can more easily sit on the toilet seat. 

The first week, Sam takes Dean to the bathroom every half hour until Dean makes it clear that he’s going overboard. Most of the time, it’s a question of warning Sam in time. Dean is well aware of his bodily functions. He's just no longer in the habit of evaluating how urgent his need to urinate is. Sam has convinced him to still wear a diaper at night, despite Dean’s protests. “Just a precaution, Dean. When you're completely trained during the day we’ll stop, I swear.”

There is a lot of groaning and some “Dean can do it” mumbled, but it turns out to be practical since Dean wakes up with his diaper wet every morning. It’s hard on him. He’s angry, Sam can tell. Sometimes he’ll take off the diaper himself and throw it away in disgust. Sometimes he’ll wake Sam in the middle of the night, tears in his eyes. “Sam, I couldn’t hold it,” he whispers in shame.

Then, at the end of February, Dean wakes up three mornings in a row with his diaper dry, and although it’s a race to get him to the bathroom in time, Sam figures they’ve done it. Got rid of the diapers. He announces it to Dean while they eat their breakfast.

“I’m not buying any more diapers, Dean,” he says casually. You don’t need them anymore, even during the night.

Dean, who’s trying to eat cereal with a spoon without spilling too much of it, drops his spoon in the bowl, milk splashing everywhere. He lifts his head and smiles at Sam. “Yes, no more diapers.”

“You did it, dude.”

“Don’t need diapers.” Dean affirms, buffing his chest.

“No you don’t.”

“Diapers r’ for babies,” Dean adds, wrinkling his nose.

Sam burst out laughing. After a while, Dean figures he must have said something funny and starts laughing too.


	11. Chapter 11

_Peoria, March 10_

The first time Sam realizes the inherent dangers of Dean getting better is at one of his neuropsychology appointments.

He’s reading a magazine article while Dean does a difficult exercise with Dr. Landon. She’s been showing him cards with complex drawings on them and asking what he sees. The purpose of the exercise is to see how Dean can think and how he can hold a conversation.

“What do you see, Dean?”

“I… don’t know.”

His brother is tired, Sam can hear it in the tone of his voice. Dean has been making great progress with his language, but his speech remains a little slurry and uncertain, even at the best of times. Right now, it’s even slower, almost like a murmur.

“I know you’re tired. Let’s do this one and then we’re done.”

“Devil’s trap.”

“What did you say?”

Sam’s head snaps up.

“S-star n’circle. Devil’s trap,” Dean repeats.

Sam cocks his head so that he can see the card. Surely enough, it’s a circled star.

“What’s a devil’s trap?”

“P-protection.” Dean mumbles.

Damn it. Sam can see confusion written all over Dr. Langdon’s face. He clears his throat and thinks fast.

“He means a Solomon’s circle,” he says matter-of-factly. “Our father had a friend…a scholar, who was really into the interpretation of old symbols. That's a simplified version of a Solomon’s circle. According to the legend, King Solomon used it to trap demons.”

“Wow. I didn’t know that,” Dr. Langdon states.

And that’s that. Sam starts breathing a little easier. Dean wiggles on his chair. “M’tired, Sam.”

“Yes, we’re done, Dean. You did great,” the woman smiles reassuringly at him.

Sam waits until they’re in the car, back on the road, to talk to Dean. He has to be careful. Dean still has a lot of trouble with his emotions, and he’s especially sensitive to Sam’s criticism. Sam wonders if this is only because of the brain damage, or if Dean has always been sensitive, but more capable of hiding his sensitivity behind his walls. He remembers how it had been when they were young and John had to reprimand or criticize him, how eager Dean had always been to make their father proud and how starved he was for every little gesture of affection. Now, everything for Dean is equally intense, emotionally speaking, and he doesn’t have any defense against it.

“Burgers,” Dean says eagerly as soon as they’re on the road.

“Yes, I said we’d go through the drive-thru, but first things first, Dean…”

Dean’s face tenses. He’s so in synch with Sam’s mood that he notices every little fluctuation in his tone of voice.

“It’s okay, nothing’s wrong. But we talked about this, Dean. The work we used to do.”

“No, I don’t-“

“Wait.”

Dean’s lower lip is quivering dangerously. Since he can now speak when he has night terrors, Sam has realized how complete his memory is. Nevertheless, each time he tries to speak about hunting, Dean closes himself off completely, refusing and denying everything Sam says.

“I know, you don’t want to talk about it and I understand, Dean, but you can’t say anything to other people. A devil’s trap is something we learned from Bobby, right after dad died.”

“Sammy, please,” Dean murmurs, making himself as small as possible.

“And you can’t mention it to other people, you know, like the other day at the supermarket, when we bought salt and you kept saying it was for protection?”

“Salt s’for protection.”

“I know that, but you can’t talk about it. I told you there is nothing, even remotely concerning hunting, that you can tell people. They don’t know about it and they'll think you and I are crazy.”

“I understand,” Dean mumbles. “M’Dean Smith and it’s a lie.”

That's the most that Dean is capable of in terms of lying. It confuses him when Sam tries to explain why it's important for him not to let people know he's Dean Winchester. As for the rest, although Sam has repeated it again and again, Dean doesn’t “get” the whole lying thing.

“I don’t want anybody to think you’re inventing stuff, Dean."

“Didn’t know what to say,” Dean admits. “M’tired, I want a burger. With cheese on it.”

“Alright.”

That’s the exact moment Sam fully understands that they’ll have to stop the hospital visits, eventually. He'd told himself he could make up a story simple enough for Dean to remember and lie about, but now he can see that it won't work. For Dean, hunting is related to demons and the monsters he used to kill, not something as subtle as a devil’s trap or a line of salt. The thing is, Dean is becoming chatty. The words are coming easily to him now and he sometimes starts talking and doesn’t stop, jumping from one subject to the other, even if they don’t have anything in common. That’s a symptom called Distractible Speech and is sometimes seen in brain damaged patients, according to Dr. Murphy. Sometimes, it’s mixed with something called Pressure Speech and, when that happens, it’s like Dean’s head becomes too full and he has to verbalize his thoughts to get them all out. He's unable to control what comes out of his mouth and is incapable of stopping.

All in all, this is bad news for working on an almost daily basis with the same people when you have to lie about almost everything in your previous life. Sam doesn’t want to get to a point where Dean speaks about beheading a vampire in front of his neuropsychologist and the doctor starts asking questions, probably wondering if Dean has really lost his mind.

“I want cheese,” Dean repeats stubbornly, signifying that the conversation about hunting is over for him.

“Of course. And chili cheese fries I bet,” Sam answers, because for now, there is nothing else he can do.

::: :::

Five days later, Sam is busy on his laptop, transferring money from one account to the other, still a little flabbergasted at how well his money scheme is working, when he sees Dean go into the kitchen from the corner of his eye. He waits and tries to stay focused. Now that Dean can get around the house without help, it’s another game entirely, especially since they got rid of the diapers. Even though his brother is nervous and easily scared, he’s now comfortable enough to leave Sam’s sight when they’re in the house. Sam will sometimes find him pouring himself a glass of orange juice (and wasn’t that a disaster) or turning the TV on, tongue sticking out the corner of his lips from concentration as he tries to remember how the controller works. It’s funny, in a way. It’s scary, most of the time, because Dean wants so badly to regain some independency, but he lacks the judgment of what he can and cannot do. To make matters worse, he’s sneaky about it. Last week, Sam had woken up suddenly in his very uncomfortable bed in the middle of the night, sure he’d heard some noise. Dean’s bed had been empty. He’d found his brother in the kitchen, the remaining piece of chocolate cake in one hand, trying to open a drawer to get a spoon with the other. He had wanted to eat it before going to bed that evening, but Sam had said no because Dean had almost eaten the whole cake by himself.

“Dean, it’s one o’clock,” he’d said, still groggy with sleep.

“Dean is hungry,” Dean had replied, looking him in the eyes with his chin raised high, ready to fight for his right to eat the piece of cake.

And what could Sam do except sit with his brother and wait for Dean to eat his damn cake?

This time, though, Dean must know he’s doing something forbidden because he walks out of the kitchen and straight into the bathroom without casting a look at Sam, as if as long as he doesn’t see Sam, Sam doesn’t see him either. That won’t do. Sam leaves his comfortable place on the couch and goes to find him.

Dean hasn’t locked the door, which is a blessing given that he’s standing in front of the mirror with the kitchen scissors, trying to cut a patch of hair right in the middle of his forehead.

“Dean, stop!”

Dean freezes with his hand in the air and drops the scissors. They fall in the sink with a clattering noise.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“My hair’s too long,” Dean babbles, keeping his eyes on the floor.

“Well, just say so and I’ll take you to the barbershop.”

“Used to cut Sam’s hair,” Dean replies. “I can do it.”

“Not with kitchen scissors! Damn it, you used to trim my hair when it got too long, but what you need is a haircut, there’s a difference.”

Dean shrugs and puts one hand on Sam’s chest. “You do it.”

“I can’t.”

“Don’t wanna go to the barbershop!” Dean screams suddenly, his face beet red.

“It’s okay, I’ll stay with you.”

Dean still doesn’t like to go out and be with strangers, except for his hospital appointments. He’ll go grocery shopping or run a short errand with Sam, but the toll it takes on him is significant. He’ll often break into tears afterward for no reason, or maybe just to let off some steam after enduring a great amount of stress.

“Not okay!” Dean yells right in Sam’s face.

“Dean, you don’t have to yell at me.”

“I can yell!” Dean yells. “I can cut my hair, I can do it, can do it, m’ not a baby!”

“I know you’re not. Dean, listen…”

Dean doesn’t listen, though. He walks straight out of the bathroom and goes to sit on his bed. Sam follows, trying to remain calm. He gets it, he does, how Dean tries to prove to himself every single day that he’s still him, he’s still Sam’s big brother, an adult capable of taking care of himself. It’s heartbreaking, but it’s also exhausting, for Sam. He’s been developing treasure troves of patience ever since Dean has started to talk again.

“Dean,” he tries.

“Shut up!” Dean cries, hiding his face between his hands.

“Okay. I’ll let you calm down then.”

Sometimes, when those bouts of anger happen, that's all Sam can do. It’s part of Dean’s recovery anyway, expressing his frustrations. It’s so much better than the passive, silent man who couldn’t even stand on his own. Sam would be very stupid not to rejoice in Dean’s newly acquired stubbornness, even if it means more work on his part.

Sure enough, less than five minutes later, Dean joins Sam in the living room and stops abruptly in front of him, head lowered.

“M’sorry.”

“It’s okay, Dean.”

“Sammy…” Dean swallows loudly. “Can you take Dean to the barbershop?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

Dean smiles quickly and sits next to Sam, getting as close as possible. “Don’t like going out.”

“I know.”

“Hair’s too long.”

“Yeah well, I like it when your hair is a little longer.”

Dean mumbles something unintelligible. 

“What?”

“Sam has girly hair,” Dean whispers, hiding his face in Sam’s shoulder.

“Hey, I like my hair.”

“Girly hair,” Dean repeats with a burst of nervous laughter.

::: :::

Sam takes some precautions before scheduling an appointment for Dean. There is no barbershop, or any kind of those economic places Dean used to visit when they were hunting, close enough for Sam’s liking. Maybe it’s better this way. Sam finds a small salon nearby owned by a woman. On the phone, she assures him there is no problem with Dean being scared or anxious. Sam prefers to warn her beforehand than to have to explain Dean’s strange behavior when he’s right there with him.

The hair salon is not very far away from where they live. The appointment is settled for the end of the day so that Dean will be the last costumer. It’s perfect. The hairdresser finishes her last client while Dean looks around, wrinkling his nose at the heavy scent of hair product in the air. 

“I’ll be with you guys in five minutes,” the woman says, smiling warmly at them. 

Her name is Sharon and she’s in her mid-twenties. She’s pretty, has the kind of look that Dean normally falls for. Sure enough, Dean’s face gets this deep shade of red and he keeps casting looks at her when he thinks she isn’t looking. It’s cute, actually.

When it’s his turn, Dean sits on the chair after a little encouragement from Sam. He’s nervous, both from the fact that he’s going to have his hair cut and that Sharon is definitely his type. While she ties the protective drape around his neck, he starts talking and doesn’t stop. “M’name is Dean and this is my brother Sam, wanted to cut m’hair myself and he said now we live on Peach Street and I had an accident and now I’m doing better my hair’s too long need a haircut you’re very pretty.”

“Whoa Dean. Let’s calm down a little,” Sam coaxes him. “M’sure Sharon didn't understand everything you just said.”

“Well, I got the part about me being pretty,” Sharon smiles at Dean from behind him in the mirror. “Thank you.”

“Pretty,” Dean repeats, biting his lips.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

“I’m not so bad myself,” Dean agrees, nodding enthusiastically, making Sharon laugh.

“So, Dean, what kind of haircut do you want?”

“He’s used to have his hair very short on the back, and a little longer on the top, but huh…cut clean around the ears and on the neck. Kind of like a soldier?” Sam tries to explain, and probably does a shitty job of it.

“So, trimmer for the neck and around the ears?”

“M’dad’s a soldier,” Dean murmurs.

Shit.

“Dean, you do remember what a trimmer is? Makes a buzzing noise, but it doesn’t hurt.”

Dean rolls his eyes –seriously, he rolls his eyes at Sam. “I know.”

“Well, let’s do this then,” Sharon takes the clipper from the counter and adjusts it. When she turns it on, Dean gets a little tense. He looks for Sam’s approval. Sam is sitting near him, ready to calm him down.

“Trimmer. Doesn’t hurt,” he repeats, patting Dean’s thigh.

Once Sharon is working, Dean stays very still, looking at his reflection in the mirror. His expression goes from doubt to curiosity. He laughs when Sharon uses the clipper around his ears. “Tickles,” he says, hunching his shoulders.

“I know it does,” Sharon agrees.

“Now cut,” Dean is starting to get impatient. The hair on the top of his head hasn’t been touched yet.

“There are a couple of scars where the hair doesn’t grow,” Sam explains. He points to his own head. “Maybe leave it a little longer around those areas.”

Sharon nods. She thinks Dean’s been in a car accident. That’s usually the simplest explanation. Anything is better than “hey, a freaking demon bashed his head on a piece of concrete.”

It’s fascinating to see Dean’s dark blond hair falling from his head and onto the drape. As Sharon works, it’s like Sam sees his disabled brother shifting into the other one, the Dean he knew who was so damn proud of his looks and knew how to use them to his advantage.

Dean seems to go through something similar. His eyes widen in surprise and he finally smiles at his reflection, a half crooked smile that’s so much like the Dean from before it actually brings Sam close to tears.

“I want,” Dean bites his lips, thinking. “Want…spikes?”

“Yeah?” Sharon asks, grabbing a bottle of gel from the counter. “Spikes on the top?”

“Yes,” Dean nods seriously.

Sharon goes to work. She does a great job in hiding the scars. Once she’s done, she moves away so that Dean can have a good look at himself. His mouth drops open and he lifts a shaking hand to touch the carefully spiked hair on his head.

It’s a shock, seeing him like this. He’s still too thin, too pale, but for the rest, it’s like the old Dean is suddenly back. Sam swallows the lump in his throat and tries to shake Dean out of his own shock, smiling at him and joking with Sharon.

Dean smiles a little but, in the end, he closes his eyes slowly. “Wanna go home,” he murmurs. “Wanna leave now, Sammy please.”

Sharon’s features crumble. “Is it what you wanted?”

“Yes, it is. Don’t worry, he tires easily,” Sam tells her.

Dean waits until he's in the car to cry. It starts suddenly, long, heart-wrenching sobs that he tries to cover up in his cupped hands.

“Dean.”

“M’… m’stupid,” Dean sobs.

“What? No, you’re not stupid!”

“M’not the way I was before Sam. I remember, I remember with the haircut and I was a hunter and I looked out for you and I can’t do anything now and I’m- I’m-“

“Dean,” Sam says firmly. “Hey, listen to me.”

Dean hiccups, then tries to stop, wiping his face with his mittens. 

“I’m a retard!” He protests.

“No, you’re not a retard! Where did you hear that?”

“The other day at the store. Don’t be mad, Sam, please.”

The freaking kid. Sam remembers. He kept casting looks at Dean, but Sam had been busy paying for the groceries. That’s when he must have-

“Don’t be mad. Sam,” Dean pleads, and Sam realizes how hard he’s gripping the wheel, how fast he's driving. He takes a couple of deep breaths. This isn’t what Dean needs right now. 

“I’m not mad, and you’re not a retard, or stupid. You do know what happened to you, Dean? You do remember, right?”

Dean cries silently, nodding. This is a subject they haven’t touched more than barely brushing the surface. From what Sam can tell, after having witnessed nightmare after nightmare, Dean’s memories are more or less intact until the moment Meg had possessed him. He knows a demon has hurt him, badly, but he doesn’t know how it happened and doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Your were hurt in your head, your brain. It was serious, you could have died.”

“I didn’t,” Dean murmurs.

“No, you didn’t and, man, I’m so glad. You fought so damn hard to get better and it’s not over. When the brain is injured, it takes a long time to heal.”

“M’still sick?” Dean asks, voice overflowing with uncertainty.

“No, you’re still recovering. People can’t tell why you act the way you do, why you’re different. They don’t know that the doctors said you would never walk or talk again, but you did, because you’re the strongest person I know. And you’re still making progress. Last month, you couldn’t eat with a spoon and now you have no problem with it. Do you realize what a huge step that is?”

“I can eat with a spoon, I can walk, I can talk, no more diapers,” Dean babbles quickly, still hiccupping through his drying tears.

“Damn right.”

“Damn right, I can.”

“Hey, I know it was a shock to you, seeing yourself so much like the way you were before. It was a shock for me too.”

“Shock. I was shocked,” Dean articulates slowly, like he's trying the words out in his throat and mouth.

“You know what you would have said, though?”

“Wha’?”

“You would have said you’re a handsome son of a bitch.”

Dean bursts out laughing, as intense in his joy as he is with sadness or fear.

“Sonnovabitch,” he giggles.

“Yeah.”

“Sonnofabitch,” he repeats more slowly, and Sam guesses that in his mind, the connection is made, that he realizes, on some level, the familiarity of this expression. How strange it must be to remember another self, another life, without understanding it.

“Dean?”

“What?”

“You do look great.”

“I know,” Dean answers, smiling his unique Dean-like smile, and now it’s Sam who's close to tears all over again.

::: :::

Whatever self-awareness the haircut triggers, it definitely changes something. For the next couple of days, Dean appears more distant, like he’s closing in on himself. Sam has seen the old Dean do it often enough to be worried. Right now, the worst thing Dean could do would be to try and shove everything back in. He can’t progress that way. Sam gives him some time and, when Dean refuses to go to his occupational therapy or to have Emma come over, Sam doesn’t put up much of a fight. He figures, with the mental state Dean’s in right now, it would be too easy for him to let something about his previous life, about hunting, slip out.

Dean has the right to have his bad days too. Sam respects this, just as he respects the couple of times he has woken up in the middle of the night, not to Dean’s cries but to his groans, and realized that he was rubbing himself against the bed, trying to get himself off. Sam had remained perfectly still and silent. Dean is, after all, a twenty-seven year old man, with the same urges as any other man. It had happened before, when he’d still been wearing diapers. Sam had suspected there was sperm as well as urine in the morning when he’d changed him. Doing it consciously, though, is another sign of progress, of course, and despite not being sure how to deal with it, Sam had thought that the least he could do was to give Dean some false sense of privacy. He had waited a couple of days before offering to start sleeping in his own bedroom, but Dean had been so overwhelmed that Sam had backed off that idea quickly.

Dean’s fourth day of brooding, though, is the limit Sam has set. That’s why in the morning, as they eat breakfast and look at their daily schedule, when Dean says he doesn’t want to go see Dr. Langdon, Sam objects.

“No, we’re going. And we’re taking a walk this morning. It’s almost spring, Dean, and we haven’t been out since you had your hair cut.

“No,” Dean repeats, his eyes crossed in concentration as he tries to get a spoonful of cereal to his mouth.

“No?”

Dean chews and doesn’t answer.

“Look, Dean, I know you must be going through some issues right now, but you can’t stop living because of it.”

“It hurts,” Dean whispers through his mouthful.

“What? Where? Where does it hurt, Dean?”

Dean shrugs, blinking quickly to try and keep his tears from falling. Slowly, he presses his chest with his hand.

“Your chest? Do you… What kind of hurt?”

“I think,” Dean adds. “I think and it won’t stop, my head, it’s full and it won’t stop and I’m not hungry. I want to watch TV and eat popcorn. Popcorn is good, like at the movie theater. Popcorn. Butter. Bread’n butter.

There goes the distractible speech again. Sam takes Dean’s free hand and looks him in the eyes until he has his full attention.

“It hurts when you think, Dean?”

“There,” Dean presses his chest again. A tear slides down his cheek. “Wanna talk but it hurts too much. I’m scared. Don’t want it to hurt.”

Oh. 

“It’s anxiety,” Sam says as softly as he can. “Even if it hurts you have to talk, Dean, because it’ll keep on hurting if you don't.”

“Want it to go away,” Dean sighs with so much pain showing in his eyes it’s almost unbearable.

“Talk to me, Dean, please. It’ll do you good, I promise.”

Dean nods. His hands are trembling, his lower lip as well. When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper. “Why did it happen to me, Sammy?”

Oh, god. 

“Your head? Why did a demon hurt you, is that what you mean?”

Quick nod.

“It happened… because you’re a freaking hero, Dean. Remember, we killed the Yellow Eyed Demon?”

“Baby was crying,” Dean mumbles. “Then you shoot. You shoot, Sammy.”

“Yes, and it made a lot of demons angry. And one of them-“

“Meg,” Dean breathes out. 

“Yes, Meg.”

“She… she k-killed our dad,” Dean whimpers, tears flowing freely now. “She hurt our dad, Sammy.” 

“Yes, I know. She was angry because of what we did. That’s why she wanted to hurt you too.”

Dean nods again. He’s shaken by constant shivers now. 

“And you and dad, you got hurt because you are heroes. Our family, we stopped the Yellow Eyed Demon to protect other families like ours. We saved the baby, and her mother, you remember that too?”

“Like when our mom died and you were just a little baby,” Dean cries. “Like our mom, Sammy… Sammy, little Sammy, watch out for Sammy Dean he’s just-“

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, Dean.”

Dean sniffs and tries to remain calm but he can’t, he’s too upset. Sam gets up from his chair and crouches in front of him.

“It shouldn’t have happened to you. You… of all people, you shouldn’t have had to go through this. It’s unfair. Now, we can’t change the past. We have to look forward, okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods eagerly through his tears.

“And we’re doing good, Dean. I’m happy, to be here with you. I wouldn’t trade places with anyone in the world. I’m proud of you, and I’m proud to be your brother.”

“I’m proud of you too,” Dean stutters. “Sam don’t leave me.”

“What? Why would I leave you?”

“To go and have a girlfriend and go to school.”

Sam shakes his head. Damn it, Dean’s head must be like a land mine zone right now. Everything that has ever happened to him, so many bad things, so many wounds, pain and loss. How can his still healing brain process all this?

“I won’t,” Sam says, trying to sound as convincing as possible. “It’s you and me, Dean, you and me ‘till the end.”

“’Cause I need you Sammy.”

Sam smiles. “I need you too. Don’t you worry about that. I need you just as much as you need me.”

Dean nods. It takes some time to calm him down, but in the end, he asks for a nap and falls asleep quickly, looking exhausted but at peace.

Sam cancels his appointment. Still, they'll at least go for a walk later.

::: :::

The day isn’t an easy one for Dean, but it’s better than the previous ones. They walk twice around the block that afternoon because it’s warmer then and Dean visibly needs the exercise. That night, when they go to bed, when the lights are off and they’re both tucked under the covers, Dean talks. It’s a little bit like a monologue, like he’s rediscovering his life. Sam nods and agrees and adds a sentence here and there, trying not to hurt as the memories flow through his mind too. 

“Jessica’s dead,” is what hurts the most. The simplicity of it, the loss that can be heard in Dean’s voice. Sam clears his throat, trying to keep his composure.

“Yes, she is. You saved me that night, Dean.”

“Sorry, Sammy. Sorry your girlfriend died.”

“It’s okay. You took good care of me afterward, remember?”  
“Find dad,” Dean mumbles around a yawn. “Gotta find dad.”

He’s been talking for close to an hour now. Sam wonders what his dreams will be made of. He fears the night terrors will jump on the occasion to make a comeback. Not that they’re ever far away anyway.

“Yes, we tried, and we did.”

“We did. Sam… I was scared.”

“Yeah?”

“All the time, scared all the time to be alone. Sammy would be mad at me for… Gotta find dad, he left, he left me, I was mad, I was scared.”

“I bet you were. Hey Dean?”

“Yes?”

“It’s late, you’re tired. What do you say we try to get some sleep.”

In the soft light flowing from the corridor, Sam can see Dean’s eyes shining, the way his hands are tucked together, the tension in his body. 

“Hey, my turn to talk, what do you say?”

“Sammy’s turn.”

“Remember that case in Richardson, with the douchebags who were paranormal investigators?”

“Y-yeah you…” Dean smiles… “You –you glued my bottle of beer to my hand, Sammy!”

“Yes, the prank war. But you did put itching powder in my underwear, dude.”

“I did!” Dean bursts out laughing. “And and and, after, after I hid a dead fish in their car, the guys who were douchebags!”

“That was awesome.”

Dean is still giggling. He doesn’t go to sleep right away, but keeps talking about their prank wars. His voice gets slurred, his words come out slower until the pauses between them get longer. Sam is relieved when he starts snoring lightly. If he could just hold onto the prank wars and the few moments where they’d allowed themselves to have a little fun, but with everything Dean had talked about today, it’s difficult. Sam can’t help but think about Jess, and his father’s broken body on the floor, and then Dean, pleading for Sam to get away just before Meg bashed his head open.

It’s almost midnight when he finally falls asleep.

::: :::

“Sam wake up!”

Sam blinks. He'd just gone to sleep, it can’t be morning already, can it?

“Sammy, the phone. The phone, Sam…”

Sam sits up in bed and jumps in surprise when he sees Dean standing, Sam’s cellphone in his hand. “It’s bu-… It’s, you know-“

“Buzzing, right,” Sam croaks, looking at the alarm clock, and yeah, it’s only just past two in the morning.

“Give me the phone.”

Bobby’s number is shining on the small screen and, all of sudden, Sam’s not so sure he wants to answer.

But of course he does. He can't not answer. This is important. Sam already knows it’s going to flip his world upside down.

“Bobby, what’s g-“

“Sam, you listen to me good, alright?”

“Yeah.“

Sam stands up, his heart beat already picking up.

“They’re after you, they know where you are.”

“Who?”

“The damn demons! So you take you brother and you leave, pack everything you can, but you have to be gone in less than an hour.”

“Bobby-“

“Call me when you’re on the road and I’ll explain. No time right now.”

On this, Bobby ends the call. Sam stands dumbstruck between the two beds, trying to process everything the hunter has just told him.

“Sammy?” Dean asks, his eyes full of questions and fear.

And damn it, what is Sam supposed to say?


	12. Chapter 12

He’s running, picking up as much stuff as he can, shoving it in trash bags because he just doesn’t have time to find luggage. His heart is beating fast. He thinks about Dean, what Dean needs, what he can’t allow himself to leave behind. The meds and his sippy cup and his favorite clothes, and diapers. He’s got what’s left of a bag of diapers somewhere and if Dean is stressed or nervous it…

Three bags full and Sam hasn’t even gone through the locked closet in the entry where he keeps the hunting stuff and, fuck, he should’ve started with this. He doesn’t know what to expect, doesn’t have the slightest idea about what's going on. What if demons are already circling the house, what if he opens the door and there is one standing on the other side?

_Dean, you gotta protect Dean, come on, man, get yourself together._

The bags are piling up near the entrance door and Sam has his gun tucked in the back of his waistband. He runs back to the bedroom where he'd left Dean to dress himself and finds his brother sitting on the bed, still in his pj’s, his arms wrapped around himself.

“Dean, come on, we gotta move.”

Sam doesn’t wait for an answer. He picks up a pair of socks and kneels in front of his brother.

“Don’t wanna go,” Dean protests, but doesn’t fight.

His eyes are two bright circles in a face that’s way too pale.

“I know, I know, Dean, but we don’t have a choice here, come on.”

Sam wishes he could take the time, wishes he could explain calmly what is going on, but he doesn’t have that luxury.

“Dean, stand up, I’ll help you dress.”  
Dean does. He lets Sam pull his pants down, then sits gently so that he can slide his legs in the pair of jeans Sam has picked for him. Then he stands up again, very robotic, and lets Sam button him and fasten the belt.

“Okay, I got your sneakers, they'll be more comfortable than your boots.

Dean’s wearing an old tee, but it will do for now. He’ll be tucked in his winter coat anyway. Sam takes his hand and drags him toward the entry, feeling the skin cold and clammy in his.

Dean stops abruptly two feet away from the door.

“NO!!!!” He screams.

“Dean, we can’t-“

“You have a gun, you got… you got a gun Sammy, m’tired, wanna go back to sleep, don’t wanna leave,” Dean whispers, letting himself fall to the floor, his legs tucked under him. He’s shaking so badly his teeth are clattering.

“Dean I know it’s scary but there might be some bad people after us and-“

“Demons, you said demons, Sam, please, don’t wanna leave…”

Sam sighs and tries to clear his mind. He needs Dean to cooperate, needs him to do it quick. He grabs the bottle of anxiety pills from one of the bags and shakes one out, then, he kneels in front of Dean. Time is flying, he knows, it’s almost like he can hear a clock ticking in his brain.

“Dean, come on, take this. It’ll make you feel better.”

Dean opens his mouth immediately, seeking anything that will provide him comfort. He then closes his lips tight, shaking his head. “Why do we have to leave, why? You said ‘t was over. You said this is our home!”

“It is, it is our home,” Sam replies, taking Dean’s face between his hands. “Look, I’m sorry, Dean. I really am. As soon as I know what’s really going on, I’ll tell you. I won’t let anything bad happen to you, okay?”

Suddenly, an idea pops into Sam’s mind. He feels the cord of the amulet, an almost imperceptible weight around his neck. He’s worn it ever since Dean was hospitalized. Lately, Dean has looked at it a lot, but hasn't asked any questions. Sam doesn’t even know why he never gave it back to him. The fear of his brother choking in the middle of the night isn’t relevant anymore, hasn’t been for a long time.

Sam takes the amulet out and puts the cord around Dean’s head and neck. “There. For protection. Remember.”

Dean nods, grabbing the small talisman in one shaking fist. “Bobby gave it to you. You gave it to me. S’for protection. Protection.”

“Yes. With this, and with me, you’ll be as safe as you can be.”

It’s not ideal, but Dean is calm enough so that Sam can coax him into getting up. Opening the door, keeping his brother behind him, Sam looks around, one hand on the handle of the gun.

The night is quiet, still. Sam scans the neighborhood as quickly as he can. He’s rusty, he knows, and right now, he misses the Colt for the first time since he'd killed Azazel.

And now, now the only thing that can do a quick job of killing a supernatural creature is at Bobby’s, or with Bobby. 

Sam doesn’t know anything anymore. He should have listened. Should have let Bobby explain. He’d been right. Sam and Dean being done with hunting doesn’t mean hunting is done with them.

Fuck, Sam had been so stubborn.

What was he supposed to do? 

“Come on, Dean, let’s go.”

Dean whimpers, but follows quickly. Sam buckles him into the passenger seat. “I’ll be right back. Hold on to your amulet, alright?”

“Sam-“

Sam runs back inside to grab the bags. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever come back here, despite what he'd said to Dean, and it fills him with a profound sadness. Dean is right. This is –was- their home.

Sam still locks the door and goes back, puts everything into the trunk and finally sits behind the wheel, starting the Impala without hesitation. Dean is sitting very still, his right hand wrapped firmly around his amulet, his eyes fixed on Sam. 

“Wanna pick the music?” Sam asks as he shifts into gear.

“Don’ want music,” Dean mumbles. 

“Alright, let’s go.”

Sam waits until they're on highway to call Bobby back. He’s breathing a little easier since they left, doesn’t feel trapped anymore. Maybe, just maybe, the old hunter overreacted, better safe than sorry, right?

Bobby takes his sweet time to answer –enough for Sam to start sweating again. Dean’s gaze on him is heavy and unblinking. He knows every word he says, every reaction he has will be analyzed by his brother. He tries to keep his composure.

“Bobby?”

“Sam, have you left?”

“Yeah, we’re on the road.”

“Okay.” There is a shaky sigh of relief at the end of the line. “Good. How’s your brother?”

“Holding his own. What’s going on?”

There is a short pause. Sam doesn’t like it.

“Meg is back.”

“What? But I…“

“She possessed someone else, Sam. And she isn’t happy with you guys.”

“Holy shit, Bobby.”

“I’mma try to make this short so listen to me, boy.”

“Yeah.”

“Demonic activity is at a peak. Apparently Meg is settled on finishing Azazel's –the yellow-eyed demon's- work.”

“What work?”

“Opening the gates of hell.”

“What?” Sam can’t hide his stupefaction. He hears Dean whimper and turns briefly toward him, smiling as reassuringly as he can.

“Azazel wanted to use one of the kids that he chose. Apparently, he needed one of them to open the gates. Thing is, Meg and her fucking gang of demonic bastards don’t have a clue as to what they’re doing. So far, they've taken half a dozen people. Same thing happened to them, Sam. When they were young, just like that Max Miller kid you told me about. As far as we can tell, none of it has worked so far. They were all found dead. The kids. We did some research and, as far as we can tell, you’re the only one left.”

Sam is short of breath. Something hurts deep inside of him, the thought of being responsible, somehow, for his mother’s death, for these kids that are just like him, cursed from the start by a monster. He pushes everything back, shoves it as far away as he can. He can’t allow himself to feel right now. He’s responsible for Dean’s life and his own. The rest will have to wait.

“So, they’re after me.”

“Well, yeah. Listen, two hunters are working with me on this: Ellen Harvelle and Rufus Turner. They’re tough, been in the life for years. Still, we got ambushed and huh… Meg took the Colt.”

“So it’s lost,” Sam sighs. After all they did to protect the damn thing… He doesn’t feel angry, though, knows too well that Bobby must have fought with everything he has to keep the Colt safe. 

“Basically, yeah, and it’s a damn shame,” Bobby mumbles. “Helen’s got a broken leg, Rufus has a freaking concussion, but the guy’s tough. Still, now the demons know we know what they’re up to. Meg said some things that got me worried about you guys. I’m not sure she knows where you are, but I couldn’t take the risk.”

“Maybe…if she wants me, Bobby, maybe Dean…”

 _…would be better off without me_. Sam doesn’t want to say it out loud, but if staying away from his brother can keep him safe, he will do it. For Dean.

“No,” Bobby cuts him off. “She wants Dean as bad as she wants you. She knows he’s the easiest way to get to you.”

“What are we supposed to do then? Do we need to get to your place, do we-“

“There is no more my place, Sam. They burned it. Nothing left but a few burned beams.”

“Jesus Bobby, I’m so sorry.”

“They burnt Ellen’s place as well. So no, you guys won't be safer with us.”

“Then what? What?” Sam doesn’t want to sound desperate, but he knows he does. Desperation literally seeps from his every pore.

“Let us take care of the demons. We’ll fight back. You keep Dean safe, just keep on moving. Don’t stay too long in the same place, don’t bring attention to yourselves. Don’t tell me where you are.”

“Bobby I can’t-“

_I can’t do this to Dean, not after everything he’s been through. He’s not going to make it. This is so damn unfair._

Sometimes life is unfair. John used to say that. Sometimes it’s unfair, but it is just the way things are.

“Sam, damn it, I know what I’m asking of you. I don’t see what else I can do.”

“No, I know, Bobby. I know.”

“Watch out for Meg. She possesses a different body now. It’s a woman in her mid-twenties, Dark curly hair, smug looking.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll keep in touch with you.”

“Okay.”

“We’re working on something, Sam. Trust me, we’re after those sons of bitches.”

“I know.”

“Remember, stay on the move, don’t trust anyone, watch out for Meg.”

“Got it.”

Sam hangs up and looks at Dean again. He hasn't moved at all, but his eyes are only open to slits. The anxiety pills always take effect quickly.

“Dean,” Sam starts, trying to gather his thoughts and find some way to tell him.

“Don’t wanna know, please,” Dean slurred. “Please.”

When he falls asleep, less than five minutes later, he is still holding onto his amulet.

::: :::

Sam stops seven hours later, after crossing the state line into Ohio. Dean has been awake for the last hour or so, broody and silent. The first thing he says is that he needs to pee.

“We’re going to stop soon.”

“Now!” Dean protests, rubbing at his eyes.

Sam lets it go. He’s ready to snap himself, aching everywhere and shaking with exhaustion. Better stop now before Dean gets agitated and he loses whatever’s left of his patience. 

When they finally pull into the parking spot of the last motel room in the lot, somewhere near Cincinnati, Dean is ready to burst out crying. Sam can see it in the way he bites on his bottom lip compulsively. His brother doesn’t even slow down upon entering the room, goes straight for the bathroom as Sam gets their stuff inside and starts salting the doors and windows.

“I’m hungry,” Dean declares when he walks back in the room, still trying to button his jeans at the waist.

Yeah, of course Dean’s hungry. It’s almost nine in the morning. He’s used to following his schedule and breakfast time was two hours ago. Sam curses silently. He doesn't have anything to eat with them and the bare thought of going out is exhausting.

“We need to sleep.”

“I’m hungry,” Dean repeats stubbornly. He’s standing between the two beds, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t like it here, it stinks, I’m hungry, wanna go back home.”

“We can’t,” Sam says distractingly. “Not right now.”

He finishes the salt line and look at his work. Dean growls behind him.

“I’m-“

“Hungry! I know!” Sam snaps. “I don’t have anything for you to eat, Dean, so suck it up!”

“Sam!” Dean screams, his hands bunched into fist. His face is beet red, his eyes huge and shining with fear. He sits on the second bed and shoves his face in his hands.

 _Come on man, get yourself together_ , Sam thinks, brushing his hair away from his face. _You’re not doing yourself any favors._

A memory comes back to him, clear and painful. He must have been eight or nine, and they’d just left a little town in Long Island where they had spent the summer. He’d been so angry, desperate to stay. They’d rented a small cottage by the sea and he’d felt good there, had even made a few friends during the summer. He’d felt like maybe, this time, Dad would settled down for a while.

He’d thrown a fit in the car, had snapped at Dean while Dad was putting some gas in the Impala. Had told his older brother that he was stupid, that he hated him, hated Dad, and wished he had a normal family. Dean had let him yell and punch him in the stomach, without even trying to defend himself. After a while, Sam had calmed down and Dean had offered him a chocolate candy bar. “Come on, you know how it works,” he’d said very sweetly. Dean was usually so prone to mock Sam and to tease him until Sam lost his temper. Just doing my big brother job, he would say, smiling smugly. Not this time, though. “It’s hard, Sammy, I know. I’m sorry, but yelling and kicking won’t change a thing.” He’d look sad instead of exasperated or down right angry.

_Remember how you felt, so lost and aching to feel like you belonged somewhere. That’s what Dean is feeling right now and if he could stay calm when you were being a nine-year-old brat, you can do it too. You’re an adult, damn it._

Sam crouches in front of his brother, putting his hand on his thighs. “Dean, listen, I’m sorry. You know what, I saw some vending machines out there. What do you say we grab ourselves some chips and sodas, then we’ll try to rest a little.”

“I want a Fanta,” Dean mumbles.

“Yeah, okay.”

And just like that, the crisis is averted. There is Fanta in the vending machines, thank you god for small miracles.

They eat at the small table by the door, in silence. Dean breaks it once he’s done with his bag of Cheetos.

“Can we go home now?”

“No, I’m sorry, we can't.”

Dean clenches his jaw. “Sam, I don’t like it here.”

Sam breathes in, then out. “I know, but we have to do this, Dean. Bobby wants us safe while he goes after the demons that might want to hurt us.”

Dean’s face goes from pink to white in less than a second. “Don’t.”

“I know this must be overwhelming for you, and it is for me too, trust me.”

“Are you scared?” Dean asks, lowering his eyes.

“Of course I’m scared.”

Dean nods. He’s trying to keep his emotions under control, every muscle in his body tensed with the will to do so.

“Meg’s back,” he finally murmurs. “Meg’s back, isn’t she, Sammy?”

Sam swallows back the lump in his throat. “Yes, she is.”

“What if?.... What if she wants to… get inside me again?” Dean murmurs in an almost inaudible voice.

This is the first time he has mentioned the possession. Sam tries not to sound surprised. “You remember?”

“No I don’t, I… I don’t, Sam, please.”

“Okay, alright. It’s okay if you don’t. Still, trust me Dean, I won’t let her. I’ll keep you safe. Meg will get what she deserves and-“

“Time to sleep, you said we’re gonna sleep,” Dean cuts him off, stopping the conversation there. 

Yeah, Sam thinks, relieved. Despite the stress, or maybe because of it, he can barely keep his eyes open. 

Of course, nothing is as simple as going to sleep. After they have brushed their teeth and changed into their sleeping clothes, another problem presents itself.

Dean looks at the two beds, shifting from one foot to the other. “I can’t, Sam.” He rasps.

“What?”

“I… I have to sleep in the bed near the door to protect you and I can’t, I can’t protect you now because I can’t fight and ‘m scared and I have to keep you safe, safe, dad said so. I have to…”

“Hey, Dean. It’s okay. I’m not a kid anymore. I can sleep in the bed near the door. I’ll do the protecting for the time being.”

Dean shakes his head. “No, no, no, it’s not… Not how it’s supposed to work, it’s not! Sam. Wanna go home. Sam, please.”

There is no going back! A voice screams in Sam’s head. He takes his time before answering. “Okay. I understand. We’ll both sleep in the bed near the door, what do you say?”

That’s obviously not what Dean wanted to hear but he still nods, waiting for Sam to pull down the covers.

A few minutes later, they’re both lying down, Dean tucked so close to Sam he feels like he’s choking. His plan is to let Dean fall asleep and then move to his own bed afterward, but sleep takes him almost immediately, deep and hot and filled with nightmares.

::: ::: 

Sam wakes up with a jolt, ready to fight something that isn’t there. His second reflex is to look at Dean, but he’s not in the bed anymore.

“Dean?” Sam calls, his eyes barely open.

“M’here, Sammy. Look… Lookit what I’ve done.”

Dean is standing at the foot of the bed, still in his nervous, agitated state, but at least he's smiling. Sam groans, sitting, and looks around. The weapons are laid on the table with all that is needed to clean them. The clothes that were previously piled up in their bags are more or less folded on the other bed. Dean’s sippy cup is on the tiny kitchenette counter.

“…And and our stuff is in the bathroom, to bush our teeth and shave,” Dean adds. I didn’t clean the guns ‘cause my hands… They don’t really remember how.”

“Wow. Dean. That’s great.”

Sam cringes silently. He can see why Dean did this. To make himself feel at home, to have the slightest hint of belonging somewhere. It’s Sam’s plan to leave this place the same day, after a hot shower and a call to Bobby. He can’t think of a way to tell Dean without hurting him.

He looks at his watch. It’s almost one in the afternoon. He wants to put as much ground as he can between them and their home in Peoria before nightfall.  
“Dean… I love what you’ve done with our stuff, I really, really do-“

“I don’t know what time it is, there is no clock like back home,” Dean cuts nervously.

There is one clock in the room, but it’s not digital, and Dean has a lot of trouble reading time any other way. Sam makes himself a mental note to buy Dean a watch. He never recovered the one he had been wearing when Meg possessed him.

“It’s one in the afternoon.”

Dean’s shaky smile fades a little. “We skipped lunch, Sammy. We eat lunch at noon.”

“Yeah.” Sam stretches, trying to sooth the ache in his muscles. “What do you say we pack everything and go find ourselves a nice place to eat.”

“But we just got here,” Dean trails off, looking at his clothes clumsily folded on the bed.

“I know, and I know I’m asking a lot of you. It won’t always be like this, Dean. It’s just that right now, I’d prefer to be a little farther away, just to be on the safe side.”

“How far?”

“I don’t know, Dean. Let… Let’s make a deal, okay? For today, we’ll ride until I decide it’s enough, then we’ll find a way to make things easier on you.”

“…And you, Sammy.”

Sam smiles. “And me. We could take a shower and then pack our stuff, what do you say?”

Dean shifts from one foot to the other, biting his lips. This is like walking on a tight rope, Sam thinks. Either Dean is going to go with it, or he’s going to have another breakdown. 

“…I’m gonna… I’m gonna put the stuff back in the bags, Sammy, don’t want to take my shower, shower’s in the morning and… and we’ll stop to eat lunch, we’ll stop, stop stop, shut up Dean I-“

“Hey, Dean,” Sam cuts firmly across his brother's rambling. "It’s a great plan. I’m sorry you worked so hard, but-“

“No. I help. S’okay. Okay Sammy you can take a shower I can help take everything and put them in the bags and I can help.”

“Yes, you can. Thank you.”

Dean smiles, even if fear and uncertainty still shows in every aspect of his being. It must take so much courage to keep himself under control and Sam makes a note to talk to him about it later. Right now, he doesn’t want to mess with Dean’s fragile state of mind.

::: :::

Bobby doesn’t have good news. He’s just arrived at Sam and Dean’s place to find it completely torn apart. Good thing they left, he says, while Sam holds back his tears. Dean’s home, their home, isn’t safe anymore. “We tried to clean a little and you guys will definitely be able to come back when all this is over,” Bobby adds. “They must have come in the early hours of the morning so it’s a good thing you guys got out of there when you did.”

It is a good thing, but learning this, Sam is more eager than ever to get back on the road. He hopes he’ll manage to coax Dean into driving for at least an hour before stopping for lunch.

Dean is ready to go. He even helps Sam put their luggage back in the car. Once they’re settled, he asks where they’re going.

“I don’t know, Dean.”

“I don’t like to not know,” Dean whispers, but it’s more addressed to himself than to Sam and the resignation in his voice is tough to hear. Like somehow, Dean has reverted to his old self, understanding that there is no place the Winchesters can call home.

And just like that, just like almost two years ago, when Dean came back into Sam’s life, they’re back to being hunters, brothers forever roaming the road, always moving but going nowhere.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The key to making Dean as comfortable as he can given the circumstances is to set a routine, even when they’re constantly on the move. The first few days, he shifts between broody and agitated, is plagued by nightmares every time he closes his eyes and is very clingy. When they’re in a restaurant, or at a gas station, Dean refuses to acknowledge other people. He stays as close to Sam as he can, hides his face in Sam’s shoulder and shakes like a wounded animal.

Then, Sam has the idea of asking Dean to participate in their “roadtrip”, as he now calls their constant run from demons. Sounds better, and it’s reassuring, even if they both know exactly why they’re doing this.

The first time Sam opens a map on his computer and asks Dean to help him pick their next stop, his brother’s eyes gleam with pride. Even if he does manipulate Dean to get him to pick a destination that sounds right to Sam, his brother feels like he’s part of the plan, has a say in it. He can control something, instead of feeling like he’s anything but. When they’re on the road, Sam puts Dean in charge of watching the road signs to be sure they’re heading the right way. When they stop at a motel, Dean helps in securing the room and getting everything unpacked. Sam finds that his brother is way calmer if they follow the same routine every day. They wake up and find a place to eat, they ride until noon, stop to have lunch and then ride some more. Dean is alright with the fact that, most of the time, they eat dinner once they’ve reached their destination, even if it’s late at night. Then, they take a room for the night, look at the map to see where they’re heading next, and the same thing repeats itself the following day.

They go on like this for two weeks. Sam speaks to Bobby twice during those weeks. The hunter remains vague in the details but, apparently, Rufus, Ellen and Bobby are looking for a weapon that can kill a demon: a knife, with the same power as the colt. Bobby tells Sam to keep doing what he's doing. Sam doesn’t say where they are and doesn’t ask too many questions either. What good would it do him to know that Meg and her followers had killed someone, or tried to open the gates of Hell once more. He’s focused on protecting Dean, keeping him safe. So far, so good.

After two weeks, Sam feels like it's safe to slow down a little. Not always, but at least twice a week, they stay at the same place for two days. It does Dean some good, having time to relax between their never ending car rides, and it’s good for Sam too. April is here, the temperature is getting warmer. Dean likes to sit in the sun, expose his face to the light and just enjoy it. He looks better, is in better shape as well. Sam continues the exercise regimen he used to do back home, makes him walk and workout with him every morning. Dean goes along with it willingly. “I can do it,” becomes one of his favorite sentences. It makes Sam smile, seeing the stubborn determination and pride written all over his brother’s features. 

Sam does a lot of reading about demons, exorcisms and possession. Even though they carry the small anti-possession medals Bobby gave them, Sam knows too well that a medal can easily be lost, or torn off by a demon. With the help of some internet websites and his Dad's journal, he works on a protection symbols that can be tattooed on the skin. At the end of April, he finds a spell that will imbue the ink with powerful properties of protection. All that’s left is to find a tattoo artist who is willing to do what Sam asksof him. It would be simple to call Bobby and just ask. With all the connections the old hunter has, Sam’s sure he would give him a name in a matter of minutes. Sadly, Sam can’t. Bobby has been very clear on the fact that with demon is on his trail. It's better if he doesn't know where the brothers are or what they’re doing. God knows a demon could find a way to torture him and learn the truth.

In the end, Dad’s journal is the answer. Sam finds the name of a psychic named Angela Swain, who runs a tattoo parlor. He calls and learns that Angela had died five years ago, that her granddaughter is now running the tattoo parlor. Her name is Shiloh and she has a mouth on her. 

“Why would you ask about my granny? Are you one of those brutes?”

“I… I’m not…”

There is a genuine laugh at the end of the line. “Hunter. Are you a hunter?”

Sam wants to hang up and forget about the whole thing. He’s getting paranoid, he knows, just like John had been in his mad quest to avenge his wife. Still, there aren't a lot of options here. He clears his throat.

“Maybe I am.”

“Well, maybe I know all about the supernatural world we live in, so what can I do for you?” The young woman asks casually.

“Tattoos. For protection.”

There is a short silence at the other end of the line. “As long as there isn’t black magic involved. I won't touch that shit with a ten-foot pole.”

They agree on an appointment time, which Sam makes under a false name. He’s still not sure he’s going to go through with it, but he can at least have a look at the place and the woman. He would feel much better knowing that Dean will never go through the trauma of a possession again.

Shiloh’s hometown is outside of Jacksonville, Arkansas. Sam and Dean are crossing through Colorado at this point, so it won’t take too long to get there. Now for the difficult part, Sam thinks. 

Telling Dean about it.

It’s the beginning of May and the weather is warm. Dean has been in an especially good mood for the last few days. One evening, they’re eating fried chicken outside a restaurant, sitting at a picnic table. Sam doesn’t like to be out in the open like this but Dean had insisted so much he didn’t have the heart to refuse. Eating fast food almost constantly has helped Dean put on some weight. Maybe it isn’t the best way to go about it, but Sam likes to see his brother’s face getting fuller. His cheekbones aren’t sunken anymore, he has a light tan and freckles are reappearing on the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. He reminds Sam of the Dean who came to get him at Stanford that one fateful night.

“So, Dean, I think we should head to Arkansas,” Sam says casually, looking at the map he has opened on his computer.

Dean takes a sip at his root beer and frowns. “But we were just there.”

True. They'd been in Arkansas less than a week ago.

“I know but there is something we need to do there.”

“What?”

Sam takes a deep breath.

“What do you say we get some matching tattoos, it would be cool, right?”

“Tattoos?”

Dean puts his drink on the table and wraps his arms around himself. This is an habit he's developed since they've been back on the road, a way to comfort himself, Sam supposes.

“Why?”

“For protection.”

“But… we got this.” Dean shows his medal on the thin silver bracelet he wears on his right wrist. “And I have this,” he adds, grabbing his amulet. 

“These tattoos, Dean, they would specifically provide protection against demonic possession. You know what happened with Meg? She would never be able to get inside your body again, or mine.”

Dean doesn’t look at Sam. He never looks at Sam when he mentions hunting, especially demons. “It’s gonna hurt,” he finally murmurs. 

“A bit, but we can take it, right? We’re Winchesters,” Sam says enthusiastically. 

Dean shrugs, but the beginning of a smile quirks the corner of his lips. 

_Okay,_ Sam thinks. _Not bad. Time to change the subject now._

“Now, what do you say we do some sparring? There's enough space here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Dean agrees.

And that’s it for the tattoos. 

They throw the remains of their lunch in a garbage can nearby and select a patch of grass near the picnic table for their sparring ring. This training has been going on for a week now. It wasn't Sam’s idea, but Dean’s. “Show me,” he’d said one morning. “To protect you, Sammy. Can’t protect you anymore.” Sam had replied with his usual _you-don’t-need-to-Dean-I-can-protect-the-both-of-us_ but Dean had gotten angry and repeated “show me”, yelling louder and louder until Sam promised he would.

It’s good, in a way. The exercise is helping Dean get back into shape and is another way of giving him the impression he has some control over the situation. But Dean’s coordination is shot to hell and, most of the time, when he tries a new move, he ends up falling on his ass, tripping over his own feet. Sam had been scared that this would make him realize how much strength and agility he's lost but Dean is an enthusiastic learner, never discouraged by his failure. 

Of the two of them, Sam gets the impression he’s having a harder time with this, remembering the fierce fighter his brother once was. He used to be jealous, back when he was a teenager, of how everything seemed to come so easily to Dean, every fighting technic their dad showed them. How many times had he kicked Sam’s ass without even appearing short of breath?

It’s hard to let go. That Dean doesn’t exist anymore and, although Sam loves the new Dean just as much, he still misses the old one. It’s like a vague pain in his gut that never really goes away.

“Okay, I’m going to show you something new, alright?” Sam asks while Dean jumps from one foot to the other like he wants to warms himself up – he looks more like he desperately needs to pee but Sam just goes with it, can’t help but smile.

“I’m going to kick you with my foot, like this." Sam shows him. “And you’re going to grab my foot to unbalance me, alright?”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Dean’s eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. He waits for the kick, eyes so focused that the left one crosses a little.

Sam gives a very slow, very predictable kick with his right leg, careful not to hit Dean in the process. Dean jumps in place and grabs Sam’s boot with both hands, holding it so tightly his face becomes beet red. “Good,” Sam hops a little in place not to fall. “Now unba-“

He doesn’t have time to finish. Suddenly, Dean steps forward, lifting Sam’s foot as high as he can. Sam falls backward, his arms making large circles in the air as he tries to stay up, but it’s too late and he can barely help himself with his hand so as not to fall flat on his back. He lands with a surprised “oof,” than feels the weight of Dean’s body crushing him on the ground as his brother falls too when he tries to hold onto Sam’s leg.

“Jesus, Dean!” Sam rasps, trying to breath.

Dean’s face is inches away from his own. He’s laughing. “I did it, Sammy. I un… unbalanced you.”

“You did, dude,” Sam surrenders. Dean’s laugh is contagious. “Hell, you really, really unbalanced me.”

“M’awesome,” Dean says, beaming with pride.

Sam doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the whole point is to unbalance his adversary while staying up and ready to strike. Who cares anyway?

::: :::

_Cabot, Arkansas, May 12_

“I changed my mind.”

“Dean, we-“

“Needles stink. I don’t like’em.”

“Come on, dude, you used to let me or Dad sew you up without even cringing.”

“I was still scared. Inside,” Dean mumbles, shoving his head into the crook of Sam’s neck.

Sam wraps his arm around Dean’s shaking shoulders and looks around. The tattoo parlor is empty, except for the girl who'd welcomed them and asked them to take a seat. She looks barely sixteen and is drawing something on a piece of paper and chewing gum like her life depends on it. Shiloh will be there shortly, she told them half an hour ago.

Sam is about to call the whole thing off. Dean is scared out of his mind, the tattoo parlor looks barely legit, with dust covering everything and a sense of abandonment suspended in the air. 

He decides to give it five more minutes.

“Remember, I’ll do it first and you’ll see it’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, it is,” Dean replies.

“Hey guys, I’m Shiloh. You must be Sam and Dean Smith, right?”

The girl standing in front of them is tiny, wearing shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination and a worn out Megadeth t-shirt. Her hair is tied back in long, tiny braids in colors that shift from red to a whitish blond. She’s pretty, with a heart shaped face and grey eyes as big as Dean’s. She can’t be more than twenty-five, maybe less, but there is something serious and wise in her features that Sam can’t really pinpoint. 

“Yes, we are,” Sam stands up and shakes Shiloh’s ink stained hand.

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs, tugging on Sam’ sleeve. “Let’s go.”

“Dean, come on dude, you can do it.”

“Why don’t you guys come to the back with me?” Shiloh coaxes gently.

She rises a notch in Sam’s regard by the way she seems to understand Dean’s difference without making an effort or passing judgment.

The back of the tattoo parlor is the opposite of the waiting room: everything looks scrubbed clean and sterilized. The chair is like one of those seen in a dentist's office, only more comfortable and covered with a clean sheet. The instruments on a table nearby are wrapped in their sterile packaging. Even more reassuring, there is a simpler version of a devil’s trap carved on the ceiling for everyone to see. Shiloh sees Sam looking at it and shrugs. “People think we tattoo artists are all freaks. They don’t question the strange devil worshipping star on the ceiling. They think it’s cool.”

Sam nods and makes Dean sit in a chair nearby. He takes the drawing he'd made for the symbol and shows it to Shiloh who nods. “This is against demonic possession, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Could work,” Shiloh whispers, observing the sheet more intensely.

“Yes, theoretically, but you gotta mix something in with the ink. I brought it with me.”

Sam takes a small bottle out of his jacket pocket. It’s a mixture of holy water and sage essence. “Will it be alright? I mean, will the ink still…work or whatever, if you put a drop or two in it?”

“Yes, it will. Okay, let’s do this. I suggest the chest, just above the heart. Protection symbols are always more effective when they’re close to the main core of the circulatory system.”

“Alright. Do you mind letting me watch as you mix this with the ink?”

Shiloh snorts. “Hunters. All a little paranoid, right?”

“I have good reasons.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Of course you can watch. You okay there, Mr. Smith?”

Dean seems to snap out of whatever mind state he'd been lost in and looks at her with curiosity. “I’m not… Right, Mr. Smith. Dean Smith’s my name. I don’t want you to hurt my brother.”

Dean buffs his chest and lifts his jaw, observing the instruments on the working table. 

“I won’t.”

“Sam’s my brother, don’t hurt him,” Dean repeats with whatever courage he's gathered.

“I swear I’ll do my best,” Shiloh agrees solemnly. 

When the mix is done, Sam takes off his jacket and shirt and settles on the chair. Dean brings his chair as close as he can and observes the whole thing with wide eyes, biting hard on his bottom lip. The first few times the needle pierces the skin, it actually hurts enough that Sam has to fight not to let out a hiss, but he succeeds in keeping his face as relaxed as possible and looks back at Dean, smiling. “See?”

“I… Does it hurt?”

“Stings a little, nothing to fuss about.”

“Okay,” Dean agrees, visibly not convinced. 

“You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to.”

Dean nods and lowers his eyes to his thighs. Shiloh works in silence for the first few minutes, then she has to press her free hand on Sam’s chest to get a better balance.

That’s when he feels it. A quick but undeniable connection between the young woman and him. It’s barely there. Sam would have missed it if he hadn’t had previous psychic experiences of his own. He tenses on the chair and looks at Shiloh. She’s blushing slightly. “Sorry,” she whispers.

Of course, knowing that her grandmother was a psychic herself, Sam should have guessed that there was at least a possibility that Shiloh had inherited her granny’s skills. He brushes it off, shrugging. There is a silent understanding between the two of them. He hadn’t felt anything wrong with the energy she’d revealed to him, and he knows too well mental powers aren't something you choose to develop. It’s just there and you have to deal with it.

It takes an hour and a half to complete the tattoo. About halfway through, Sam starts feeling a warming, heating sensation going from the tattoo and spreading through his whole body. The protection symbol has started to work. He lets out a sigh of relief.

When Shiloh is done and spreading some antibiotic ointment on the irritated skin, Sam asks Dean to take the anxiety pill he'd brought with him, just to make things a little easier for him. By the time he's sitting on the tattoo chair, he should start to feel more relax.

Dean agrees without a word. He succeeds in opening the small pill bottle. His fine motor skills are improving every day.

By the time the bandage in in place and Sam is up, putting his shirt back on, Dean is up as well and trying to step away from the tattoo chair with as much stealth as he can –which isn’t a lot.

“Dean,” Sam warns.

“Don’t wanna,” Dean breathes out.

“Hey, come on, it’s for your own good, you know that. We’re not doing this for fun. We’re doing this to keep you safe.”

Dean stops in his tracks and lets Sam remove his jacket and t-shirt. He’s still very thin, his white skin covered in goose bumps. He sits in the chair, shaking so badly his teeth are chattering. Shiloh, who was getting her ink gun ready, looks at him with compassion in her eyes. 

“I’ll be very careful, Dean, I swear.”

“Mmm mmm,” Dean says between clenched teeth, fighting hard to keep his tears from falling.

It’s heart wrenching. Sam sits on the chair next to him and gets as close as he can. He grabs Dean’s hand and squeezes it. “That’s it, you can do it, you don’t even have to look.”

“Yeah, I can do it,” Dean repeats, as if to convince himself.

“Can I take the pendant off?” Shiloh asks.

Dean snaps. “No! No, you can’t! Is for protection you can’t take it off, you…”

“Hey, it’s okay, Dean, we’ll just slide it over your shoulder alright?” Sam coaxes, getting the amulet out of the way.

“Ready?”

“No.”

“Let’s do this,” Sam counters. 

When the gun approaches Dean’s skin, he turns his head and shoves it into the crook of Sam’s shoulder. He’s tensed all over, but he doesn’t move, even when Shiloh works the first drop of ink.

“Hurts,” Dean mumbles in a shaky voice.

“You’re doing great.”

“Yes, you are,” Shiloh agrees. “After a few minutes, your body will produce endorphins, Dean. That means it will help soothe the pain. You just have to be patient.

Luckily, the anxiety pill is starting to work as well and after about five minutes of moaning softly against Sam’s skin, Dean begins to relax. “Doesn’t hurt a lot,” he admits, lifting his head to look at Sam.

“See, I told you. Now just relax and let Shiloh work.”

Dean nods and closes his eyes again, wincing from time to time. Shiloh is working quickly and efficiently. After about fifteen minutes though, she stops suddenly and bites her lips, her eyes widening, showing a range of emotions too tangled together to be deciphered. Dean doesn’t realize anything is going on at all, and Sam keeps his mouth shut, although he’s almost sure Shiloh felt something. This really isn’t the time to disturb Dean.

The moment passes and the young woman goes back to work in silence. After a while, Dean’s breathing has slowed down significantly and his body is totally relaxed. Head still resting against Sam’s shoulder, his mouth half opened and his eyes closed, he’s not only relaxing, he’s sleeping, Sam realizes with amusement. 

“He’s asleep,” he murmurs with a smile.

Right on cue, Dean starts snoring lightly and Shiloh smiles as well. 

“He was so stressed out,” Sam goes on in the same quiet voice. “He barely slept at all last night.”

“I think he’s very brave,” Shiloh lets out, blinking rapidly.

Like she wants to chase tears away from her eyes.

“You saw something, right?” Sam asks.

“I didn’t mean to,” the young woman protests. “He doesn’t have any mental barriers. I shut it down as soon as I could.

“It’s okay, I understand,” Sam says, because yeah, he does. “Dean’s been through a tough time. Let’s just say we aren't getting these tattoos for the fun of it.”

“I… I know… I saw what happened. Kind of.”

Shiloh takes a look at Dean and bites her lips again. The sun-shaped tattoo is slowly but surely taking form. “Can I tell you something, Sam?”

“Yeah.”

Whatever it is that she saw, Sam wants –needs- to know.

“Dean is putting a lot of effort into keeping something forgotten.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“What happened to him when the demon possessed him, it broke his psyche. He’s getting better, but he would be progressing faster if he wasn't so busy preventing himself from thinking about it.”

“You're saying he’s stopping himself for getting back to the person he used to be?”

Shiloh shakes her head. “There is no going back for Dean. He’ll never be the man he once was, but that doesn’t mean he won’t get better. He’ll be different, but better. It's all up to him, at some level. What he’s hiding from himself puts a lot of mental pressure on him. A demon causing brain damage doesn’t just make a few blood vessels burst. It’s… metaphysical, but Dean - and yourself as well, just so you know - has a unique strength that can help him overcome this. It’s in his blood.”

“Should I push to make him talk?”

“I don’t have any answers for you on that point. All I could feel is that it needs to happen. Dean has to open himself completely to get on with his life and see his condition improved. He doesn’t know he’s stopping it, it’s not conscious, but someday it will become too hard for him to keep his memories at bay.”

“But it’s a good thing, right? If it can help him…”

Shiloh shrugs. “You know the old saying? It has to get worse before it gets better? Well, that’s what awaits him.”

She doesn’t have anything else to say. Dean sleeps until the end of her work, startling awake when she starts to lay the antibiotic cream on the tattoo. 

::: :::

“She was nice,” Dean says when they’re back in the car, ready to go.

“Yes, she was.”

Dean presses his hand to his chest.

“Dean, don’t touch it.”

“It itches.”

“I know. Still. Hey, are you hungry? It’s past six, we could stop at that Chinese restaurant we saw earlier.”

Dean nods but doesn’t seem enthusiastic about it. 

“What, you’re not hungry?”

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“She’ll never be able to get inside me again, right?” Dean breathes out.

“No, Dean, she won’t.”

Sam doesn’t swear or promise anything and he’s glad Dean doesn’t ask him to do so. Theoretically, the tattoo and the medal should work, but Sam knows they've barely seen the tip of the iceberg, demonically speaking. He’ll fight tooth and nails for it not to happen again, but he doesn’t have any certitude.

He has trouble falling asleep that night, thinking about what Shiloh told him about Dean. He wonders if Dean is blocking the whole possession episode or something more specific, something that Meg would have had Dean do while she possessed his body.

It’s no surprise when Dean wakes up screaming, fighting Sam with all the strength he can manage. “Please don’t, please don’t, don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him,” he keeps on screaming, immobilized by Sam’s strong embrace.

Afterward, Sam wants to ask questions, he wants Dean to talk, say anything that could give him something to hold onto, to coax his brother into talking about what’s so painful for him he keeps it forgotten on purpose.

That night isn’t the night, though, because Dean just whimpers until he falls back asleep in Sam’s arms, holding onto his amulet with a shaking hand.

Sam’s hatred for Meg bursts into him once more. He wishes he could have her right in front of him, wishes he could kill her for good and tell Dean that no, he’ll never have to worry about her ever again.


	14. Chapter 14

_Chesapeake, Virginia, May 30_

Dean looks at Sam one last time, his twenty dollar bill held tightly in his right hand.

“Come on, I’ll be right behind you, you can do this.”

“Yeah, okay. Okay, Sammy, I can do it,” Dean agrees, pushing the door of the Wendy’s open. 

He walks to the counter and waits behind a woman ordering, keeping his distance. Sam can see how hard it is, judging by Dean’s tensed shoulders, for him not to turn his head and seek Sam's approval. _Come on, you can do it,_ he thinks with determination.

The cashier is young and bored. When the woman in front of Dean moves away with her tray, she raises an unimpressed eyebrow at as he walks very slowly toward her. Sam clenches his jaw. He promised himself he wouldn’t intervene.

“Sir? You wanna eat or what?”

“I…” Dean clears his throat. “I, huh… want a bacon deluxe double and fries and a coke and, and… that’s all.”

“…Right,” answers the bored girl, whose tag name says Tamara. She takes a clearly condescending look at Dean before entering his order in the register, then mumbles the price.

“I g-ghu-got twenty dollars,” Dean hands his bill to her with a shaking hand.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Tamara the bitch answers with a very slow voice, like she’s talking to a little kid.

She gives Dean back his change. He stays there, waiting.

“Huh… Okay, pal… can you move to your right so that I can go on to another customer?”

“My order,” Dean replies very softly.

“Just wait there, it’s coming.”

Tamara’s tone is so annoyed and cold that Dean takes a step back and apologizes. Sam can’t take it anymore. He presses a soothing hand on his brother’s back.

“That’s good, Dean. You did good,” he says, and Dean doesn’t turn back because it’s the rules. His body relaxes, though, and he shifts to the right to wait for his food.

Tamara shares a look with Sam like she wants him to acknowledge what a retard Dean is. Sam doesn’t smile or yell; he just gives his order and waits. He doesn’t want Dean to hear what’s burning on the tip of his tongue. Dean had to gather a lot of courage to do this -Sam won’t ruin the moment. He still has in mind what happened last week, when Dean and he had been having breakfast in a small restaurant, minding their own business. Dean was drinking his coffee in his sippy cup –he didn’t use it anymore except for hot beverages. Some kids had walked passed them and made fun of him, talking about the “giant fucking baby with his cup. What a retard.” Sam had already been standing up to make them swallow their words, but Dean had stopped him, tears in his eyes. “No, please, Sammy, no yelling. Let's go.”

In the end, Sam had complied so as not to upset his brother. Outside the restaurant, Dean had thrown his sippy cup in a trashcan. “They’re right, Sammy, they’re right! I’m a big baby, I’m stupid, I can’t-“ he had kicked the trashcan once- “even” –another kick- “drink coffee” –kick- “ ‘m stupid, stupid, stupid, m’head s’all wrong.”

Sam had had to restrain him physically before Dean could hurt himself. It had taken a long time to calm him down. Dean had cried in the car until he’d fallen asleep from exhaustion, despite Sam’s soothing words about not believing, never ever believing, that he was stupid or retarded.

“There you go,” the very unpleasant Tamara pushes the tray toward Dean. He holds onto it and murmurs a _thank you_ that she probably doesn’t hear.

“You can find us a table, Dean,” Sam states coldly, without turning his eyes away from the cashier.

He waits until Dean is gone before smiling at Tamara, making himself as imposing as he can. “So, you think it’s funny, treating my brother like that, Tamara?”

Tamara blushes and shifts from one foot to the other. “I…”

“Oh please, just shut up. You know, my brother, he was in an accident. He wasn't supposed to ever wake up from his coma.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t. How could you have known? That’s why it's worse.”

“What is worse?” The girl asks, taking a step away from her place behind the counter as Sam takes a step forward.

“You treating people like this without even knowing why they’re different. Do you have any idea how many lives my brother saved before his accident? If you’d been the one in trouble, he wouldn’t have let you to rot just because you’re a mean, heartless bitch. He would have saved your life without even blinking.”

“Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry I-“ Tamara stutters.

“Don’t be sorry. You’ll do it again, next time you meet someone you feel you can treat like shit. Let’s just hope we’ll never meet again.”

Clearing his throat, Sam takes his tray and walks away, hoping that the terrorized look on Tamara's face will last more than a few minutes. 

Dean waits for him in a quiet corner, next to a family who are talking between themselves quietly. Dean seems naturally drawn toward certain people. Sam can see immediately why he chose this place: the two young boys, brothers, most certainly; one of them must be fourteen, the other ten or eleven. Dean feels comforted by things that remind him of what Sam and he are to each other.

“You did it, dude,” Sam sits and smiles widely.

“Yhu-yeah,” Dean agrees. “I put the money in my pocket, is that okay?”

“Yes, it is. Come on, you can eat.”

Dean smiles with a little more confidence and unwraps his burger. Sam sees the youngest of the two boys sitting next to them staring at Dean. He has very pale hair, a pointy face, and huge blue eyes.

Sam feels the anger rising up again. Can’t they have a few minutes of peace? Is the world such an ugly place that people and monsters are equals? Or is Sam’s perception so distorted he can’t see the nuances anymore, with everything black or white, nothing in between.

The boy opens his mouth and Sam is ready to burst, to reply to anything that will come out. The older brother seems to understand Sam’s annoyance and nudges the young one with his elbow. “Brandon, stop staring,” he murmurs.

“I just want to tell you that your jacket is so cool,” Brandon finally tells Dean, ignoring his companion.

Dean blushes and lowers his eyes. “Thanks. It was my dad’s.”

“He gave it to you?” Brandon asks, impressed.

“Yeah,” Dean smiles.

“Brandon, come on, finish your cheeseburger,” the woman says softly before smiling at Sam and Dean. 

“My jacket is cool,” Dean repeats around a mouthful of fries.

…And just like that, Sam’s fate in humanity is restored. For the moment.

::: :::

That evening, Sam spends a long time on the phone with Bobby. Dean is engrossed in a Mel Brooks movie, eating popcorn and laughing out loud. This is a good thing. Sam knows it makes him anxious to listen to those conversations, although he always does his best not to react to Bobby’s news and not to ask questions that could upset Dean.

Right now, he can tell Dean is so focused on the movie that this won’t be a problem.

Bobby talks about the famous knife that can kill a demon for good. Apparently, it’s a mythical weapon, created by the Great Demon Asmodeus. Summoned by King Solomon to help with the construction of the Temple, Asmodeus had trouble with other demons. He forged a blade in the ever-burning depths of Hell to get rid of his enemies forever, wanting to be Solomon’s favorite. As the legend goes, the knife had been retrieved by King Solomon himself and then had disappeared for centuries, resurfacing here and there through history. According to Bobby, it’s now part of a private collection in Berlin, its current owner having no knowledge of its actual power. Rufus and another hunter are actually in Germany right now, trying to obtain the blade. 

“Alright, if this is true, it’s a good thing. But what about Meg? Is she still looking for us?”

“Well, there haven’t been any other disappearances, and the demonic activity seems to be receding, but this don't mean they’re not up to something. This freaking Hell’s Gate appears to be in Wyoming, and it's surrounded by a freakishly huge devil’s trap. That’s why the demons would need special kids like you to get to the door, most probably.

“So, she’s still looking for me,” Sam sighs, feeling a headache coming on. 

“Yup.”

“Bobby,I can’t drag Dean around to motels forever.”

“You know, he never complained before.”

“Yeah, right. Before was before,” Sam tries to hide the annoyance in his voice. “He’s not the same Dean anymore, Bobby, and he never will be, do you get it?”

There is a short pause on the other end of the line, and Sam feels guilt crawling up his veins. Bobby is doing everything he can to protect Dean, just in a different way.

“I know, Sam,” Bobby finally whispers, in the same time as Sam says: “Sorry, Bobby.”

There is a silent understanding between them -they both wish they could put an end to this for good. 

::: :::

Somewhere between Georgia and Florida, during the second week of June, Dean gets sick. Sam doesn’t realize it at first. When they’re on the road, Dean can be very talkative or silent, depending on his mood. He often sleeps for an hour or two, then wakes up for a while before falling asleep again, rocked by the movement of the car. They’re almost through with their day, entering the small town of Lamont, not too far away from Tallahassee, when Sam notices an almost constant sniffing sound coming from the passenger seat. When they stop in the parking lot of a mom-and-pop restaurant, Dean groans that he’s not hungry, even though he hasn’t eaten more than a bunch of crackers for lunch. His cheeks are red, his eyes look a little glassy. He shivers when Sam feels his forehead with his hand. 

Fever. Sam has learned to tell the difference between the normal warmth of the skin and the unnatural heat of a fever ever since Dean was first admitted to the hospital. Even when he was in the coma, he was so susceptible to infections that Sam was always on watch. 

Dean had remained vulnerable to bladder infections ever since. He’d had two infections after getting out of the hospital. Dr. Murphy had said that the bacteria was probably still present in his bladder, dormant and undetectable, and that Dean’s immune system would have to get stronger for the risk of infections to grow weaker.

Last time, Dean had been able to express the pain in a few words. “Hurts,” he would moan each time he peed. Sam wonders why he didn’t say anything this time.

“Dean, you don’t look so good.”

“Don’ feel so good,” Dean whispers. 

“Is it back? Does it hurt when you pee?”

Dean shakes his head. “Wanna sleep. Are we there yet?”

“Almost. Tell you what, let’s have some takeout tonight.”

“Cold,” Dean grunts, despite the thick, warm atmosphere of Florida that’s only intensified by the Impala's black leather interior.

Sam makes a last stop at a drugstore to buy some meds; his travelling first aid kit is always well-furnished these days, but a little prevention never hurt anyone. He never leaves Dean alone in a motel room -there's too much possibility of something going wrong. He drags Dean along in the drugstore, his brother following like a reluctant kid. Sam notices that he keeps rubbing his nose and hopes that all this is only a cold. A bladder infection would mean finding a clinic to get some antibiotics and a lot of complication.

Then Dean sneezes open-mouthed, without even trying to cover his mouth, right in front of the poor cashier and Sam comes to the conclusion that he’s stuck with a kid sporting a runny nose. Great.

“God, Dean, cover your mouth,” he snaps at his brother after apologizing to the cashier.

The fact that Dean bursts out in tears right then testifies to how bad he feels. He’s getting better at controlling his emotions. Not tonight, though, as if the fact that he’s sick made him regress. Back in the car, Sam apologizes and helps him blow his nose.

“Don’t feel good,” Dean hiccups.

“I know. Let’s go get some rest.”

Sam chooses a motel a tad nicer than usual. He can afford it. With the monetary scheme he's got in place, it’s really not a concern.

Dean refuses to eat and barely takes a few sips of the Gatorade Sam brings him to swallow his NyQuil pills. He needs help to get changed into his pj’s, and keeps shivering even when he’s tucked under the covers with an additional blanket. He’s quiet, with the exception of a few sniffles and coughing spells. Sam settles at the table nearby with a book, eating a piece of pizza and wishing the meds will take effect quickly so that Dean can get some rest. Sure enough, he starts snoring barely ten minutes later. Sam takes off the extra comforter then, so that the fever won’t get a chance to rise. Then he settles on the other bed with his paperback.

Two hours go by without Dean even stirring. Sam starts thinking about showering and trying to get some sleep when suddenly, a loud moan rises from underneath the covers.

 _Shit_ , Sam thinks.

He doesn’t even have time to stand up before Dean is sitting up in bed, brushing the covers away in a frantic motion. His face is a deep shade of red, his breathing laboured and his eyes are gleaming with an unhealthy light.

“Sam,” Dean rasps in a stuffed voice, looking around himself frantically.

“Dean, I’m here, I’m right here.”

Sam sits on his brother’s bed and touches his shoulder. Dean jolts like he’s been burned.

“Sammy,” Dean repeats, pressing his hands on his face.

“Yes, I’m right here, it’s okay, Dean, you’re sick, that’s all,” Sam coaxes firmly, taking Dean’s shaking hands away from his face.

His skin is hot and damp under the touch. Dean looks at Sam but doesn’t seem to recognize him. It’s different from the times he's woken from a night terror. It’s like he’s only half there, with Sam. Fevers have always been hard on Dean.

“Sam, I don’t want this, get this out of my head,” Dean moans.

He wraps his arms around himself and start to rock back and forth. It’s been a while since he’s done that. “No,” he screams, shaking his head violently. “No, don’t! Get out, get out get out!”

“What, Dean, what’s happening? Please look at me, tell me what’s going on!”

Dean doesn’t react to Sam's voice. He surges forward until he’s crawling on the bed and lets himself drop off at the end, advancing on all fours until he reaches the corner of the room where he curls in on himself. Sam follows him, cursing anyone and anything under his breath that decided Dean’s life should be so difficult, so painful. His brother, always moving forward despite everything, so determined even with all the damage Meg did to him.

 _Get out._ That’s what Dean is still murmuring, arms wrapped around his head. Sam doesn’t know what he’s seeing or remembering, but could the fever have diminished his determination not to remember his possession? Is he seeing, or hearing Meg right now?

Sam doesn’t think anything of it when he kneels next to Dean and touches him. He doesn’t realize he’s doing anything special, except that suddenly, his eyes are burning and there is a hissing sound between his ears. His head feels like it’s about to split open.

_Damn, he’s drunk. What was he thinking anyway, leaving. Sam is right, he should go back._

You can’t protect him if you keep him in the life with you.

_But he doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to go back to Stanford. He’s always been so damn stubborn, just like dad._

Dad.

_He closes his eyes painfully. It keeps repeating in his head, the moment he saw his father’s body laid on the floor, damaged in atrocious ways. John Winchester, still so huge and unbreakable in his eyes, reduced to a crumpled, lifeless body._

_He tries to keep the burning tears from falling, but he can’t._

_He’s dizzy, nauseous, lost, he’s missing his father so fucking much, wants to understand why, where did he go wrong, how he could have done things differently so that John wouldn’t have had to die to the hands of a demon._

_Just like mom, sweet and smiling and bright as the sun, frozen in time by the eyes of a four year old boy._

_He won’t lose Sammy, he won’t. Couldn’t live with it._

_He needs some air. Needs to get back to Sam, to make him understand, one way or the other…_

_He walks in the parking lot, trying to stay upright. He’s wasted. He’s…_

Dean.

_He freezes on the spot._

Hey, Winchester.

_No, she’s not real. It’s…_

_He reaches to grab his gun. He doesn’t have it. The gun is in the room._

_Desperation takes hold of him, his head is foggy with alcohol, he’s going to be sick, this can’t…_

_Can’t be happening._

_He turns on his heels clumsily, sure he’s going to see Meg’s blond hair and her dark, hateful eyes._

That’s right, you fool.

_There is no one there._

Dean.

Come on, did you think I would let it go?

Really?

_He falls on his knees, surrounded by black smoke, the voice of Meg resonating in his head, not even trying to sound human anymore._

_He sees the demon for what it really is -a horrifying creature made of burnt flesh with gleaming eyes that swallow everything, and suddenly it’s inside him, and he’s choking, fighting, trying with all his will to push the thing away, to throw it up, and he’s almost…_

I’m staying, Dean. 

_No, he yells, except he doesn’t. Doesn’t do anything. He’s trapped, he’s oppressed by the evil that invaded him and it hurts so bad, it’s everywhere, it burns and it presses and it pushes him away, he’s not…_

We’re going to have so much fun together.

_Everything is red and excruciatingly painful…_

_“Hey, do you need a ride?”_

_NO!_

Sam screams as he lets go of Dean’s shoulder and falls back on his ass, his stomach churning and his head pounding like crazy. He wipes the sweat away from his forehead and sees Dean looking back at him, his eyes burning with anger, momentarily lucid despite the fever. 

“Don’t do this!” Dean rasps. “Don’t do this to me, Sammy!”

“I’m sorry, Dean, I didn’t mean to, I swear! I just touched you and it happened.”

“You were in my h-huh-head like she did, just like she did!” Dean tries to curl in on himself in an even tighter ball, shivering and sniffing.

“Hey, no. I would never do that. It’s… my powers. Sometimes they just… I don’t know, Dean, they’re dormant but sometimes…”

Sam is so upset that he barely cares about the headache and the nausea. He can’t lose Dean’s trust, can’t allow him to regress in any way.

“Dean, you’ve got a cold. That’s all there is to it. I touched you and I must’ve triggered some of my psychic stuff, that’s all. I’m so, so sorry.”

“I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” Dean murmurs. “ 'M sorry, I don’t feel good. I want it to stop.”

“Okay. Okay, let’s work on that,” Sam agrees, relieved to see the anger gone from Dean’s reddened face. “Your fever, it’s playing tricks with your brain. We’re going to lower it.”

Sam takes Dean with him in the shower, letting the water fall over both of them, the temperature just a little more than lukewarm. He’ll settle set it progressively colder just as he learned to do from the nurses at the hospital. Shocking someone with iced water can trigger shivering episodes that will only result in raising the temperature.

Dean complies when Sam pushes him softly against the wall so that he can hold himself up and be hit by the shower’s water. He stays close to him nevertheless, shoulders bumping, to keep him warm and protected. Dean sneezes a couple of time, then closes his eyes and sighs, the shivers wracking his body finally receding. 

“Don’t like being sick,” Dean groans, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand.

“I know. It sucks.”

“Makes me think, don’t like to think it hurts,” Dean adds.

Sam nods his understanding, even if Dean can’t see him. He’s just barely coming back from the shock of what he’s been seeing, feeling, when he’d touched Dean.

The loneliness and desperation, the almost unbearable pain of the loss of their father, the fear about losing Sam as well… If only he could go back, stop Dean from leaving, make him talk instead of trying to run away from his fears.

“It’s not your fault, Dean,” Sam says. “Nothing is your fault. Dad’s dead, my decision to stay in the life, the way Meg took advantage of you to possess you. I mean, I don’t know if you still can remember how you felt at the time, but I want you to know this.”

“Felt sad. Angry,” Dean answers, grabbing Sam’s hand and squeezing it hard. “Then hurt, hurt so bad when she…”

Dean stops and swallows back a sob. Sam knows it isn’t the ideal moment to talk to him about this but it's what has been in Dean’s head, that’s what he’s been seeing when he’d woken up delirious from the fever. 

“I wish I could’ve been there to help you,” Sam adds. 

“I tried to get her out, but she wouldn’t go. I tried really, really hard, Sammy.”

“I know you did.”

Sam waits for Dean to go on because they’re almost there, almost at the heart of the matter. He _knows._ What Shiloh had said about Dean’s possession -they’re getting there.

Dean doesn’t add anything more, though. He takes a deep breath and lets the water swallow him. Sam bends to turn the hot water tap down a little.

“Dean? You still with me, man?”

“Yeah,” Dean slurs.

“Whatever happened to you during the time you were possessed, you know you can tell me, right? It can help getting some things out, because keeping a secret can be as hurtful as the secret itself.”

“Don’t remember,” Dean says quickly. “Don’t remember, I don’t wanna…”

He looks at Sam with pleading, feverish eyes. “I see you, Sammy. I see you and it’s dark and my head hurts, my head’s all wrong, but I’m… happy ‘cause it’s over. She left. I’m happy ‘cause she left and you say s’gonna be okay, Dean, don’t talk, s’gonna be okay. I know it’s not okay, but I’m happy still ‘cause you’re there with me and you’re alright.”

Dean’s memory is so acute. Sam barely remembers what happened that evening when he exorcised Meg. Everything is blurry, blanketed by the panic he felt. 

“You remember when she left,” he responds, swallowing the lump in his throat. “But what about in between?”

“No!” Dean snaps. “No, stop it please, 'm tired… Wanna go to sleep. Please, Sam, I wanna sleep.”

Sam can’t allow himself the luxury of upsetting Dean, not when he’s in this state. He murmurs soothing words and promises not to bring it up again –at least not right now, he tells himself. Dean finally falls back into his sleepy, feverish stupor and stays under the spray long enough for the fever to withdraw.

It’s a start.

::: :::

They spend three days in Lamont. Dean’s cold doesn’t get worse, and after the first night, the fever doesn’t come back. Even though Sam is careful not to mention anything close to Meg’s possession of Dean, Dean is silent and broody. He seems to regress to a state where he’s happy to let Sam take care of him. He even wets the bed on the second night. Sam is worried, and he wishes silently that Dean’s cold was the only thing bothering him right now. After three days, he’s about to go crazy, from being trapped in the motel room that smells of sweat and Vicks ointment. 

Even though Dean is still sick -his nose chapped raw, his eyes sunken, and his voice coming out raspy and low- Sam decides he’s good enough to travel. The temperature outside is reaching 80 degrees at ten in the morning, and the air is already heavy and thick with humidity. Sam decides to go back north. He and Dean have never been fond of the temperature in the south. Maybe it has something to do with the way they were raised in damp, cold apartment and cabins, in motel rooms without heaters. Even when Sam moved to Palo Alto to study, he never got used to the hot weather there.

So he drives north. Dean doesn’t last more than ten minutes before he falls asleep, snoring loudly because of the congestion. Sam takes the opportunity to call Bobby, hoping the man has some good news about the blade they’re looking for. All he gets is the old man’s voice mail.

::: :::

They reach Waycross in Georgia shortly after four pm. Dean is bored. There is a bag full of crumpled Kleenex resting on his lap, and he keeps shaking his head, mumbling to himself. 

“You wanna stop now?” Sam asks, when Dean tells him for the tenth time in the last five minutes that he can’t breathe through his nose.

“I wanna stop forever,” Dean grunts, and hell, Sam can only agree. He takes a look at his brother, pouting next to him on the front seat, and an idea pops into his mind. He notices an empty parking spot less than five minutes later and drives to it, then stops the car. The lot is large enough to accommodate them. The mall it used to serve is closed, and by the look of it, had been for a long time.

 _You’re crazy,_ Sam thinks.

But hey, why the hell not? Why does everything has to be so dramatic, so urgent? Dean used to be the one who could release the tension, with his stupid prank wars and lame jokes and ideas – _hey, let’s go visit the Pez Museum, Sammy. Hey, let’s get wasted. Together. Find ourselves some nice girls and have a little fun._

Sam realizes now that Dean wasn’t being a pain in his ass for the sake of it. He was doing something necessary, so that they could go on with their crazy life without losing it.

“Sam?” Dean asks, dragging his hand under his nose.

“You said you remembered driving it. You asked if you could drive her again a couple of weeks ago.”

“You said no,” Dean replies, but there is a little sparkle in his eyes suddenly. “You said: Dean, you’re not ready.”

“I did,” Sam smiles at Dean’s impression of him. “But I changed my mind.”

Dean’s smiles lights up his whole face.

They trade places. Dean puts his hands on the wheel carefully, looks around himself, and closes his eyes. He’s shaking.

“I remember driving,” he whispers. “I love driving.” 

“You do,” Sam agrees. “Are you ready?”

Dean snorts –something so similar to what the old Dean would do Sam aches just to see it. “ 'M scared.”

“Nothing to be scared of. We’ll go slow. Dude, this car is the love of your life. She’ll help. Tell me what you have to do first.”

Dean takes another deep, shuddering breath and tells Sam. He says each step aloud as he performs it. Starting the engine, shifting into gear, giving the Chevy a little time for her to be ready to go. Every word that comes out of his mouth is tinted with affection and respect.

“Then let’s go,” Sam says.

Dean does. It’s strange, the things he remembers and the ones he can’t do anymore. Like fighting, or reading. Sam had tried to help him read once, and although Dean still has the memory of reading, he couldn’t. He’d quickly become upset, pushing the book away. “The letters. They’re all scrambled. I can’t, Sam, I can’t!” he'd yelled in anger. Sometimes, though, he seems to be able to focus enough to accomplish tasks he used to do. Lately, Sam has let him clean the guns. Even though Dean’s motor skills are still shot to hell, he can get through the motions. He’s slower, but Sam could tell that the ritual of cleaning the guns had stayed embedded in his mind.

He hopes it will be the same for driving the Impala. 

And it is. Sam feels the ball of stress that was forming in the pit of his stomach evaporate. Dean is clumsy and slow, but he does remember. He shifts into gear so carefully, his eyebrows frowning, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. Then he smiles and looks at Sam for some form of reassurance.

“That’s it, you can do it. Just go slow.”

“Okay.”

Dean drives the Impala ten meters farther at a very, very slow pace. Then he stops. Beads of sweat are forming on his forehead. 

“You can go on.”

“No. You go on,” Dean smiles nervously. “ 'M too tired. Scared to do something wrong, Sammy.”

“You sure?”

“Will you let me… Can I try again sometimes?”

“ 'F course, you can. It’s your car.”

The rest of the day goes smoothly. Sam jokes, Dean laughs, and although he’s still feeling sick, there is something different about him, a glimpse of his old confidence appearing behind all the fear and confusion. 

Sam decides right then not to let the life get the better of his brother. Dean has given too much already. He deserves to laugh from time to time.

And maybe Sam does too.

::: :::

Dean’s cold gets better a few days later and miraculously, despite being close up and personal with his brother’s germs, Sam doesn’t catch it. They’re driving slowly along the North Carolina coast; the temperature is perfect, it's always a little windy and smelling like the sea. One day, Sam finds a small deserted beach and spends some time there with Dean. His brother enjoys himself immensely, feet naked and jeans rolled up, walking along the water and laughing out loud when the frothy edge of the water catches up with him. This could be their life, Sam thinks, digging in the sand to find some cat’s eye shells. Two brothers. He could find a real job, maybe something he could do with Dean. They could settle down for good in their little house in Peoria.

If only.

It’s already the end of June and they’re in Winchester, back in Virginia –Dean picked the town- when Bobby finally has some good news for Sam. Rufus is back from Germany with the weapon, and it seems like it’s really working –he had to use it back there to get away with the knife. Bobby and Ellen have finally located the Gates of Hell in Wyoming, in an old cowboy cemetery. There is always a hunter nearby to look out for demonic sights. Meg has kept quiet but this can be either good or bad.

To celebrate this new development, Sam takes Dean to a Mexican restaurant. Dean has been asking to stop by any Taco Bell for the last week or so, but Sam has heard so many bad things about this fast food chain that he doesn’t want Dean to end up with enteritis just after his cold.

Seeing the fancy-looking restaurant, Dean starts off grumbling, even closes the door of the Impala with a little too much force.

“Come on, man, what are you, five?” Sam jokes, which immediately makes Dean puff his chest and lift his chin.

“ 'M your older brother, Sammy. Ol-der,” he repeats with as much authority as he can. 

“You wanted Taco Bell. I’m offering you a traditional Mexican restaurant. It’s like… a hundred times better.”

Dean, who was about to cross his arms in revolt, stops on his feet and smiles brightly. “This a Mexican restaurant?”

“Yeah, it is, you glutton. Come on!”

They have a nice time. The food is good –most of it can be eaten with fingers, which Dean especially likes, and a really nice-looking waitress keeps casting Sam those flirty looks that he tries to ignore. Dean doesn’t let him, though. He keeps bumping Sam's shoulders and smiling wickedly. “She likes you, Sam. I bet she wanna kiss you.”

Sam is blushing red when sees the young woman turn back at Dean’s comment, and it’s obviously Dean’s highest point of the evening, despite the delicious food. 

When they get outside, a couple of hours later, the sun hasn’t set yet and the temperature is nice. Dean carefully holds between his hands a doggie bag with another part of the dessert he took: some sweet potato- pineapple cake that he ate in all but thirty seconds, humming all the while.

He looks good. Happy. He’s close to Sam, but not as close as he used to hold himself. He talks about how good the food was, and how Sam was red when the waitress talked to him, and how he will eat his piece of cake as soon as they get to a motel and could they watch a movie together?

The Impala is in sight, just at the end of the parking lot. As they walk closer, a woman walks slowly from behind the Chevy as if she was hiding behind it.

Sam stops abruptly. He hears a desperate moan and the dull “squish” of Dean’s paper bag hitting the ground.

The woman smiles. She has curly brown hair and high cheekbones, a cold, cocky smile on her face. She blinks, and even from a three meter distance, Sam can see her eyes turning black.

“Well, the Winchesters, finally,” she says in a delighted voice.

“Meg,” Dean whimpers.

An unbearable sense of panic flows through Sam’s veins. _Please no,_ he thinks.


	15. Chapter 15

“Sammy,” Dean pleads in a strangled voice.

Meg takes one step toward them. A man comes seemingly out of nowhere and joins her. He’s fairly young, clean-cut, his face unreadable. His eyes are solid black as well.

Sam thinks frantically. Sometimes when something complex, urgent and life-threatening presents itself, he can separate his chain of thoughts thought from himself, as if it's frozen in time for one never-ending second.

_They’re in a parking lot. There are people everywhere around them, it’s not even twilight yet. Why are the demons here, now, where everyone can see?_

_Because they’re desperate. Because they need you, no matter the cost._

_Because they’ve been looking for you since you left Peoria._

_How are they going to play this, Sam? Come on, in a freaking parking lot? There are kids eating ice cream at the small coffee-shop on the other side of the street, for god’s sake._

_They didn’t think, that’s why. They jumped on you the first time they saw an occasion, which is now._

_Now, and you have to get Dean away from them -you have to play it well. They won’t hurt him again. Never. Again._

“Dean, run,” he orders. “Run back into the restaurant.”

Dean doesn’t move. Sam casts him a quick look. He’s terrified; his teeth are chattering, and a darker stain is growing steadily on the inside thigh of his jeans.

God. 

“Run, Dean.” Sam growls.

“Would you look at that, the great Dean Winchester just peed his pants!” Meg laughs nastily.

“What are you gonna do here, where everyone is watching us?” Sam asks.

“You think I care,” Meg snarls, and the other demon half-smiles before lifting his hand discreetly.

It hits Sam full force, the hold the demon has on him. His legs are locked upright where he stands, his muscles and nerves so strained it feels like they’re going to break any second. He can’t even talk.

“Well, well, what are you gonna do now, Sam, huh?” Meg laughs, taking another step forward.

“Leave… Leave my brother alone,” Dean breathes out. “Please, leave us alone.”

“How cute is it that you are begging me, Dean,” Meg answers. She flicks her hand in the air and Dean falls forward on his hand and knees just in front of Sam. He’s tense and rigid, completely immobile. Sam sees him from the corner of his eyes, and something snaps.

In his head, there is a succession of images. Dean asking for a beer in his Palo Alto apartment in the middle of the night, his eyes screaming for so much more. Dean kneeling next to their father’s body, his silence filled with despair and confusion. Dean fighting the demonic possession enough to ask Sam to run, to get away. Too late for me, he’d said. Too late.

 

And now, after having suffered through everything Meg did to him, after having tried so damn hard, every goddamn day, to reconstruct himself, Dean is so scared he wet himself. Dean is probably terrified out of his mind, trapped there on the gravely soil of the parking lot. Reliving his nightmare.

And that just won’t do.

At the instant he thinks it, Sam feels something shifting in him. A heat wave comes from inside, from a place he can’t quite reach. It frees him from the demon’s hold. He can literally feel the demon’s incarnated hands releasing him.

There is more. The possessed man steps back and wobbles on his legs for a second.

 _Did I do this?_ Sam thinks, but doesn’t allow his own surprise to take over him. He walks straight up to Meg and her companion, ignoring what they’re saying, concentrating on the way they look at him: unsure, destabilized. 

_Yes, that’s right, be scared. Because no one here is going to hurt Dean. Not while I’m still standing._

“Let my brother go,” he orders quietly.

“Go fuck yourself,” Meg replies, but she’s losing her strength as well. He feels it, right before he hears Dean’s hiccupping intake of breath and the first cry of despair that rips through his throat.

Never again.

“I don’t mind exorcising both of you,” Sam says firmly. “Exorcizamus te-“

“Stop it! Meg spits.

“What is he doing, how can he do this, you never said…” the man next to her whispers in pain.

“Sam-my,” Dean cries harder.

“What did you do?” Meg asks Sam, wrapping her arms around herself.

“We need him, he’s the one,” the man says, looking at Sam with a mix of fear and respect written all over his face.

“SAM!” Dean yells.

Dean’s voice sounds far away, coming to him in waves like a distorted echo. The heat burning inside of him is starting to dissipate. _Dean, you gotta go to Dean, he’s the only thing that matters right now,_ Sam thinks dully.

People are starting to gather around them. They watch, even from the other side of the street. Two huge men that were smoking next to their bike are walking toward them.

“Hey, what’s going on, is he alright?” one of them asks.

“Fuck this shit,” the male demon whispers.

“No, we can’t, we got him,” Meg protests with rage.

Sam can hear the defeat underlying her anger.

…And just like that, it’s over. 

Meg and her friend walk away, cutting through the gathering of people. Sam only realizes then how much his head hurts, how weak his body is. He turns back to Dean, who is collapsed on the ground and still screaming at him in a raw voice, tears flowing down his cheeks.

They have to get out of there. Sam can see at least two people with their phone tucked to their ears. He goes back to Dean and helps him up. His brother’s hands are covered in dirt mixed with blood. There is a tear on his right knee, and a nasty scratch on the uncovered skin. 

“Come on, Dean, we’re okay.”

“Sir, do you need some help?” a woman asks.

“We’re okay. My brother he’s… He’s not well. I’ll take him to a doctor,” Sam improvises, only to have Dean whispers in panic. “Don’t wanna go to a doctor.”

“We’re not, Sam keeps his arms wrapped tightly around Dean’s shaking shoulders. “We’re not. Come on.”

They reach the Impala, which suddenly looks like a safe haven. Sam helps Dean inside the car and gives a reassuring smile to the woman and the two bikers. “Thanks, we’re gonna be fine.”

None of them seem to believe him, but no one’s saying anything. He gets into the car, closes the door and starts the engine.

Five minutes later, they’re on the highway.

“We’re gonna stop soon to take care of you, Dean,” Sam says, taking a quick look at his brother.

Dean is still crying silently, his eyes swollen and red, clear snot coming down his nose.

“Dean, hey, it’s okay, it’s over.”

“I peed myself,” Dean hiccups. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You did so good, Dean, you were really brave.”

“No.”

Dean takes a quick look out the rear window at the road behind them. “I’m scared, Sammy.”

“I know. It’s okay to be scared.” 

Sam drives for a whole hour before allowing himself to stop at a gas station. He parks the Impala in the back and grabs the first aid kit and a duffle bag from the trunk. He has to coax Dean out of the car into the bathroom. He locks the door behind them.

“It’s over, Dean, you’re safe,” he repeats, sitting his brother on the closed toilet lid.

Dean nods and bites his lips to hold back his tears. 

Sam cleans his face with toilet paper then disinfects his hands and knee. He helps him out of his soiled pants and boxers and puts him in clean clothes. Dean lets him work without uttering a word. 

“I want a pill,” he murmurs afterwards.

“Yeah, okay.”

Sam is not about to refuse this source of comfort for Dean. He’s always careful with the anxiety pills because they can quickly become addictive. Right now, though, he would take one himself, if he could.

He gives Dean his pill and takes three aspirins himself with what Dean left of the bottled water. His headache is reduced to a dull throb behind his eyes. He doesn’t care. He wants Dean safe. As far away from Meg as possible.

“How do you feel?” he asks Dean while helping him up.

“Don’t know,” Dean murmurs. “Wanna sleep.”

“Yeah, you’ll be able to sleep in the car. We’re going to drive for a while.”

Once Sam has his hand on the bathroom door, Dean whimpers and plasters himself against Sam.

“Hey, you’re safe. We got away, Dean. I’m here with you -I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You made them go away, right?” Dean asks, his eyes reflecting a trust so complete and pure it’s almost scary. 

“We did. You and me,” Sam answers softly. “They didn’t stand a chance.”

::: :::

“You serious?”

“No, Bobby, I just made that up to give you a heart attack.”

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“Sorry. I… sorry, it’s just…”

Sam takes a quick look at Dean. He’s still sleeping, has been for the last three hours. He looks exhausted. Sam plans to drive a least two more hours before he stops for the night. He’s been driving on back country roads, watching his rear view mirror every other minute. He knows Meg isn’t following them, but the vague threat that running away from her had been for months is now suddenly very real.

Bobby asks Sam for some other details and, for a second or two, Sam wants to tell him what he’s been avoiding since their meeting with Meg. What he did.

That he has psychic powers that can hurt demons.

How is this even possible? And why is Sam suddenly able to use them now?

Last time he’d been physically capable of moving something had been in Max Miller’s house, when he’d been sure Dean had been shot.

After the death of Yellow Eyes, he had sincerely thought it was over.

Although Sam is glad he was able to get both Dean and him out of trouble earlier, something doesn’t seem right with this sudden reappearance of his powers. First, the psychic connection he’d been able to establish with Dean, now this.

It makes him feel dirty, wrong. He doesn’t say anything to Bobby.

After a long talk, they decide that they can’t risk another encounter of this nature. No more running away. Bobby wants Sam and Dean with him where he can watch out for them, and Sam agrees. Rufus has a cabin in Whitefish, Montana, isolated and well-protected. It’s Bobby’s new headquarters. Sam thinks he can be there in a week. He would make it in five days if he was alone, but he has to leave enough time not to entirely ruin Dean’s routine.

When he finally hangs up, Sam is drained. He feels numb, old, and exhausted. Dean sleeps. Sam drives and tries not to think too much.

::: :::

It’s around three in the morning when Sam drags a sleepy Dean inside another cheap motel room, somewhere near Indiana’s state line. 

Dean is pliant and docile. He eats the bag of chips Sam gets for him and downs half a bottle of Gatorade. For the last month or so, he had come to accept he could sleep in the bed farther from the door and leave Sam the other, but tonight he doesn’t even have to ask. Sam proposes that they share the bed, and it’s a pity, the relief that suddenly shows on Dean’s face. Sam leaves the bathroom light on and slips next to his brother under the cold sheets. He takes his time to explain him where they’re going, and why. Dean nods, his head tucked in the crook of Sam’s neck. After a while, his breathing slows down.

“Dean? You wanna talk about what happened with Meg?”

“No,” Dean says in a dull voice. “Sleepy.”

“Alright then, let’s sleep.”

::: :::

“Sam.”

“…D’n?”

“Sammy, wake up, got something to say to you.”

Sam groans and shifts on the mattress. He's barely slept one hour. Dean isn’t in the bed anymore. He’s sitting at a small table near the door, keeping an eye at the window nearby. He has a knife in his right hand.

Dean had asked, last month, if he could have a knife on him for defense. Since he’d started to ask for a gun as well, Sam had found difficult to refuse the knife so he gave him a small pocket knife and strict instructions on how to manipulate it.

That’s not the knife he’s holding right now. That’s his Bowie, the one Sam’s been carrying since they've been on the run.

“Dean, what are you doing with that?” Sam asks carefully. He doesn’t like the blind look his brother has, like he isn’t entirely there.

“I protect you, Sam. From demons. I protect me… myself. Don’t want… She can’t have me.”

Sam stands up slowly, afraid of what a sudden move could trigger. He takes one step toward Dean, sees his brother’s hand tighten its grip on the knife’s handle. 

“Dean, don’t… Give me the knife, a’right?”

Dean blinks, and suddenly it’s like he’s snapping out of an almost hypnotic state. 

“Sammy?” he asks.

“The knife, Dean.”

Dean pushes the Bowie onto the table. He seems completely disinterested in it. “Wanna tell you something, Sam.”

“Yes, I get it. I’m listening, Dean.”

Sam sits in front of him and grabs the Bowie, then throws it on the bed, away from Dean’s grip. 

“You couldn’t sleep?”

“Said I got something to tell you!” Dean protests, wrapping his arms around himself. 

“Right, yes, sorry.”

“You… If I’d done something… very bad, Sam, and tell you and then you don’t want me anymore, who’s gonna help me?”

“Hey, whoa, whoa, Dean: why do you say this? I could never want to be separated from you. You get it?”

Sam bends forward to touch his brother’s shoulder. Dean gasps and gets away from his hand. “No! You… can’t. Don’t want you to look in my head.”

“Okay, alright, see?” Sam raises both hands. “Not touching you.” He adds in a reassuring voice.

_What the hell is this all about?_

“I lied, Sammy, I remember,” Dean murmurs, lowering his eyes.

“What? What do you remember?”

“When Meg was inside m’head. I… thought I didn’t but I did, I did, and now I don’t wanna know anymore and it won’t go away!” 

“Okay, I get it. You need to tell me this, Dean. It’s… it’s not healthy for you, keeping it all inside.”

Here they are, Sam knows it now. The moment Shiloh had told him about.

“I did bad things!” Dean protests, bursting into tears. “She… she made me do bad things, a lot of bad things… And she… she would laugh. Could hear her in my head -she punched and she cut and she burned, inside, all the time.”

“God, Dean.” 

Dean doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s rocking himself back and forth, his eyes still lowered on the ground. “She… she said you’d come and then she’d make me kill ya and I screamed, Sam, so hard, but I couldn’t make noise. And then… and then sometimes I would fall asleep, and I would wake up and she’d kept making me do bad things.”

“It’s not your f-“

“I killed a little girl!” Dean yells, right in Sam’s face, and it’s as if he forced it out despite himself, like the ugly confession has ripped its way through his flesh.

“Dean… what?”

Dean shakes his head, swallowing a sob. “Meg’s driving my car with my body and it’s almost night and the girl, she's walking along the road and she’s… She’s not old, Sammy, she’s twelve, or maybe thirteen, and Meg slows down and lowers the window and she says: it’s gonna rain… Get in, I’ll drive you home, and the girl says no and I yell at Meg to leave her alone, but no, no, she stops the car and she runs after the girl and she catches her and… I don’t know, didn’t wanna see, hid inside, deep, very deep where it doesn’t hurt, but she wants me to watch! She _forces_ me to watch. We’re in the woods and 's dark and she… she strangles the girl. With my hands, _my_ hands, Sam! And she laughs and I hear her telling me: look at what you’re doing, pig! You’re killing an innocent girl. I wanna go to sleep, but Meg… She hides inside me, and it’s me, all me, and I look at the girl and her face is purple and her eyes are all white and I want to help but 's too late, Meg’s back and then, then…”

Dean can’t go on. Sobs are wracking his body; he can barely take a breath without hiccupping painfully. Sam’s fists are closed so tight he feels the nails starting to cut through the skin of his palms.

Right now, he would give anything to allow Dean to forget this. Shiloh’s words don’t mean anything anymore, it's horrible seeing his brother broken in yet another way. Imagining the demon’s pleasure in hurting another human being for the sole purpose of torturing Dean makes him sick to his stomach. He swallows back a sudden bout of nausea and grabs Dean’s hands over the table, not giving him time to protest. 

Sam lets Dean get out some of his sorrow without saying a word for a while. He just holds his hands with a firm grip and waits, concentrating on not breaking down, if only for his brother's sake.

Dean can’t seem to stop. As the minutes pass by, his upper body slowly falls forward until he lets his head rest on the table, crying still, but a little more calmly than before. Sam takes this as a cue. He stands up and kneels next to Dean, wrapping his arms around Dean's waist. 

“Shhh, calm down, Dean. It wasn’t your fault, do you get it? None of this was your fault. I know you fought her, I know you did whatever you could not to let this happen, but you were possessed. You didn’t kill anyone. Meg did. Meg did it all, and then she tried to kill you.”

“I remember it all,” Dean says, voice reduced to a thin wail. 

“I know it hurts but you have to realize that you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“'M tired. Tired, so tired, Sammy. Dean would be angry. I can’t.”

“What are you talking about? You’re Dean.” 

_Jesus, what now?_

Dean sighs painfully. “No, no, the other Dean. The one before my head got all messed up. He would find and fight Meg and never, ever, stop, but not me! I can’t do anything. I’m… damaged and he would hate it.”

This, more than anything Dean has ever said before, hurts Sam the most; he has a new understanding of how Dean can’t identify his memories from before with himself. 

Only Dean could be scared of disappointing a man he cannot be anymore, like they’re two different people, like he’ll never be able to live up to the man he was in his previous life. Sam wants to tell him that this, this particular way of thinking, is so much like the Dean from before, that it proves he’s still him, despite all the difficulties and limitations he has to deal with now. He’s always been Dean Winchester; fighting for his family, stubborn and loyal, so hard on himself, and the brain damage didn’t change anything at all.

Sam doesn’t think Dean can hear him now, though. There are more urgent things to take care of. He coaxes him into taking a shower and then helps him into bed, all the while talking softly to him, explaining that he did what he could, he’s not responsible for the girl’s death, no matter how horrible and sad it is. He’s not even sure his words get through. Dean is drained, his eyes are hollow. He doesn’t speak, and when he finally goes back to sleep, he looks sad and defeated, from the way he’s holding himself to the pain creases around his mouth.

Sam doesn’t sleep. He watches over him.

::: :::

_Whitefish, Montana, July 5_

“Come on, Dean, another one.”

The spoon hovers near Dean’s mouth. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“Dude, you gotta eat,” Sam insists.

Dean grunts low in his throat, but doesn’t open his mouth. Sam sighs and drops the spoon. “Okay, alright. What do you say we make a bathroom stop, and then you can have your nap.”

Dean looks at Sam, with this new, blind look that Sam hates so much. He can feel Ellen’s gaze on the both of them, and it’s like a weight that drops on his already heavy shoulders.

Dean won’t move until Sam takes him by the hand. He’s regressed so much since his confession about the little girl’s death that Sam’s afraid he’ll wake up one day and find him completely catatonic. The day after his confession, he’d stop he stopped talking, with the exception of Sam’s name. During their drive to Montana, he’d withdrawn a little more each day, despite Sam’s efforts to keep him grounded in the here-and-now. He stopped feeding himself when they arrived here, and has had so many accidents in a week Sam had to revert to diapers.

He’s crying in his sleep, he yells when Sam is out of his eyesight. He won't let Bobby or Ellen Harvelle approach him.

Sam tries to think about what Shiloh told him. It will get worse before it gets better. It doesn’t comfort him in any way. What does she know? In the end, it’s a matter of perspective. She hasn’t been at Dean’s side constantly for the last year or so.

Sam helps Dean into the small bathroom. His diaper is wet, despite the fact that he went to the bathroom before lunch. He does pee when Sam sits him on the toilet seat, but by now, Sam knows he’ll be wet again when he wakes up from his nap.

There is a small bedroom at the back of the cabin: it’s the only one. The others beds are in the main living area. This cabin isn’t adapted for Dean. There are four adults living here, and there is nothing close to privacy. The bedroom was Ellen's when they’d arrived. She offered it immediately to the Winchesters and Sam didn’t even pretend to protest. Dean needs some calm, now more than ever.

The bed is small. Sam has to sit on a chair nearby until Dean is asleep because his brother won’t go to bed alone. At night, Sam sleeps on a thin foam mattress on the floor. It’s only been two days and his back is starting to seriously hurt. Everything is wrong.

When Dean starts snoring, Sam stands up and goes back to the kitchen to clean up. He’s not surprised to see that Ellen Harvelle has already done the dishes. He thanks her when she hands a cup of coffee to him. She’s a nice but sad] woman in her late forties. Sam had been surprised, upon meeting her, to learn that she had known John, and even saw Sam and Dean a couple of times when they were young. She lost her husband in a hunt years ago, her daughter the same way last year. Bobby told Sam that Jo had always wanted to hunt despite Ellen’s interdiction and that, in the end, she took off without waiting for her permission. She’d died hunting a poltergeist. Ellen blames herself. Of course she does.

“So, is he asleep?” she asks, sitting with Sam at the kitchen table.

“Yeah.”

Bobby left that morning to meet Rufus. He’s supposed to be back tomorrow with the demon’s knife. Sam isn’t even curious about it, just want an occasion to take it and shove it through Meg’s heart. Call him cruel, he can’t even bring himself to care about the human being she’s riding right now. He won’t have any rest until she’s dead.

“Oh, by the way,” Ellen says, taking something out of her shirt pocket. “I told you I thought I had a pic of you boys and Jo. Found it.”

She pushes the small, wrinkled picture toward Sam. It was taken outside on a sunny day, in front of the Impala. Dean is there, can’t be more than nine, small and thin, looking way too serious. He has a little girl canted on his shoulders. She’s three, maybe four, has messed-up blond pigtails and is smiling widely. Next to Dean is Sam, age five, holding on to his brother’s leg, hair too long and holding a jar preciously in his free hand. There seems to be some kind of bug in it.

Sam’s hands starts shaking and a deep, excruciating pain rises from the pit of his stomach. The little girl is dead, the boy holding the jar has lost his father, his girlfriend and his dreams of a normal life. The older boy has been tortured and damaged forever by a demon. Dean. He’s so young but at the same time he looks like he knows exactly what life has in store for him.

Sam can’t help it. He drops the photo and bursts out crying, hiding his face in the crook of his hands. He doesn’t want to do this, not in front of Ellen; not right now, when he’s the only one who stands between Dean and the rest of the world. He can’t control it. The sobs are loud and wracking. He’s scared that now that he’s started, he’ll never be able to stop.

He feels a hand touching his back, rubbing soothing circles on it. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Ellen’s voice in his ear, heavy with her own sorrow. Sam takes a shuddering breath. “No, it’s okay, it’s just… He was making so much progress. He… He’s always been there for me and now. Now… I have the feeling I failed him. Why does he have to suffer this much? I miss him, Ellen. I miss my big brother so damn much.”

“I know you do, honey.”

Sam smiles through his tears. “He would call me Samantha, if he saw me like this. He would clap my back and tell me to man up, but he would still worry about me, even without showing it. He would make sure that I’m okay. He’s never… never considered himself as important as me, or Dad. He… he never lived for himself and now….”

“Hey, give him some time, Sam. From what I know, he’s been through a lot, and he never gave up. He just needs time to process.”

 _Maybe_ , Sam thinks, _maybe she’s right, maybe Shiloh’s right. He’s being selfish, wanting Dean to progress faster than he can do it._

Nevertheless, all Sam wants right now is to have Dean smiling at him, asking if he can try to drive again. Dean blushing when he does something right and Sam congratulate him. Dean raising his chin comically as he calls himself the oldest. 

He has never stopped being the big brother. He’ll never cease to be.

\--- ---

A/N: This strory is AU, so I figured that Jo Harvelle, with or without the Winchesters, would have start hunting. In the season two episode No Exit, it is reasonable to think that she wouldn't have survived if Sam and Dean hadn't saved her. This is in no way reflecting my opinion of the character. AS for Sam's powers, I'll give some explaination about it at the end of next chapter.


	16. Chapter 16

_Whitefish, Montana, July 8_

The knife is resting on the table under three pair of eyes: Ellen’s, Bobby’s, and Sam’s. It’s a beautiful piece of art, Sam has to admit. The handle is curved and the wood is well-used, polished with age. The blade is a good fifteen centimeters long, very sharp, with engraved symbols that Bobby has yet to decipher.

There is another theory about the blade, Rufus learned during his trip to Germany. It might have been made by the Kurds during a demon infestation, to help them win the war. Sam doesn’t really care what the symbols mean and who made the knife in the first place. If it works, that's all that matters.

“So,” Bobby mumbles, breaking the silence.

He pours himself a glass of whiskey and looks at it. Sam sighs and stretches, crossing his hands behind his head. Ellen takes a sip of her coffee. It’s nine in the evening, and Bobby has just arrived from his meeting with Rufus and a couple of other hunters. Apparently, everything is calm around Hell’s Gate right now, and the demonic activity is almost non-existent, or else well hidden from hunters.

“What they’re up to is one thing, what we know is another thing. Sam, you’re the last of Azazel’s kids. If they’re still determined to open Hell’s Gate, apparently they need you. The fact that Meg was actively looking for you tends to support this theory, but maybe there is a plan B we don’t know about. Maybe Meg is just after you because of your common history.”

All this talk is tiring Sam. Dean has had a rough day, hasn't eaten anything except a few spoonful of cereal that morning. At seven thirty that evening, he couldn’t keep his eyes open despite the three hours nap he’d taken that afternoon. He's been sleeping way too much.

“So, do you guys have some sort of plan?” he asks, trying to get this damn conversation going.

“Nothing specific,” Bobby says with a grimace. “We can go on and watch Hell’s Gate, but demons can’t open it on their own -otherwise it would have been done already.”

“I get that… Azazel’s kids have… we have special powers, but why? What can I do to help them?”

Bobby and Ellen exchange a look. “What?” Sam asks, irritated. “Do you guys know something about me that I don’t?”

“No,” Bobby denies. “Nothing.”

And maybe Sam doesn’t believe it, but he’s not eager to follow this path, not tonight. “Listen, Bobby. I want Meg dead. Not exorcised, _dead_. I want Dean to be safe. From her, at least.”

::: :::

_I want Dean to be safe. From her, at least._

The words make their way into Dean’s foggy brain and he swallows loudly, holding back his tears. Sammy thinks he’s asleep, but he’s not. The voices have woken him up. 

_Wanna go back to sleep,_ he thinks.

He wants Sam to be here, with him. He won’t be able to sleep if Sam isn’t here, but he doesn’t want to call his name. Talking is too tiring. Talking is dangerous.

Dean looks around. There is a window in the room, but no light shines from it. No light at all. He doesn’t like to be in the dark. Doesn’t understand the thick nothing where anything can be hiding, waiting.

_You’re such a wuss. Man up, Winchester._

Dean doesn’t know when he started to think about the man he was before as another person entirely. This man, from whom he received all the memories, is angry at him. He’s talking to Dean almost constantly. Tells him to fight, to stop hiding, to get better, even if only for Sam's sake. 

The other Dean. He was strong, he was brave; never backed away, never cried or held Sam’s hand because he was afraid. Dean knows it used to be him. He _knows_ it. He just can’t… think of the old Dean as being the same person as himself.

Sam told him often enough. His brain got hurt very bad and it takes a long time to heal. Still, Dean knows he’s acting like a child -he knows how different he is from the other Dean. He wishes he could be more like him, but at the same time, he’s afraid of him.

_Damn it, Dean, get yourself together. You’re no use to anyone in this state._

This other Dean doesn’t understand how hard everything is. Taking care of himself. Controlling his emotions, like Dr. Murphy used to say. 

Looking other people in the eyes is hard. Finding the words in his messed-up brain is so tiring, and most of the time, they don’t come out as Dean wants them to. It’s like he has to search in his mind, constantly, to know what to do. Just like when he started to walk. He wanted to, but his brain didn’t know how to do it anymore.

Dean doesn’t remember much from when he was in the hospital. He remembers being very sick, remembers Sam being there with him, always talking, always encouraging him. Some things are clearer, though, like the first time he worked so hard to eat, or to walk.

In his mind, Dean has come to picture his brain like a puzzle. The pieces are all messed up and they don’t fit, no matter how hard he tries to make them. When he has to do something, anything, he has to find the right pieces and put them together. Sometimes they hold, and it gets easier. Sometimes they separate and starts floating, and each time he wants to do something, he has to find them all over again. 

Dean is tired.

He worked so hard to keep some memories hidden in a dark corner of his mind, but now he can’t do it anymore. He knows what he did, knows what Meg did to him. He can’t turn the light back off, no matter how hard he tries.

He thought that maybe, if he stopped trying, he could go back to not remembering anything. Let the puzzle pieces float until everything is confused and alien to him, like at the beginning. He knows Sam is worried and that hurts, but at the same time, Dean can’t keep on thinking about this. About what Meg made him do.

The little girl who was pleading him to stop, _please stop, don’t hurt me._

Even without the puzzle all put together, this part of his brain will not go back in the dark.

Dean panics. He shuts up the other Dean who’s telling him he gotta face his responsibilities. 

“Sammy!” he cries, sitting up in his bed.

He’s ashamed, but Sam is there in an instant, and suddenly, everything seems a little better.

::: :::

Dean’s head hurts, so much he wants to bang it against something until it stops. It was like this at the beginning, when there was only him and Sam at home, even before that. It made it hard to think. Dean had thought the hurt in his head would never go away, that it was normal, but then it had started to fade and he had felt better. Could find words in his mind, strength in his muscles, reason in his craziness. 

When Dean saw Meg in the parking lot, the headache had come back, and his head had felt so full nothing could be hidden anymore. He’d thought allowing himself to remember what he had done to the little girl and tell Sam about it would help, but it hadn’t. It had made everything hurt even more.

“Dean, come on, what do you want to watch?”

“Hhh…”

He really wants to say his head hurts, but the words get caught in his throat. He gets closer to Sam on the couch and moans. There is something on the TV, two guys in a car racing another one. The sound is too loud, it hurt. Everything hurt.

Dean misses his home. He doesn’t like it here. It reminds him of the other Dean. There are guns everywhere and Bobby looks at him sometimes like Dad used to look at him, like he’s waiting for Dean –the other Dean- to _man up and stop whining, damn it!_ Here, it smells like rotten wood and loneliness, like when Dean and Sammy were young and living in abandoned places. Bobby and Ellen and Sam speak about demons and monsters when they think Dean doesn’t hear, and the other Dean in his head, it pisses him off -he wants to fight so bad.

“Okay, alright. Are you tired?” Sam tries again.

Ellen looks at them from her seat near the kitchen table. Dean thinks he would come to know and like her if his head would let him. She smiles at him, and she’s sad, maybe because she also thinks he’s regressed.

That’s what Sam had said. He was sad too. And Dean wants so much for Sam not to be sad anymore.

“Come on, let’s get ready for bed.”

Sam takes his hand and drags him to the bathroom. Dean is relieved that this day is over. He always feels sleepy despite the pain. Sleepy and numb, like he doesn’t know which way is up and down anymore. Sleeping means the nightmares could come, but since Meg has found them, the nightmares never really go away anymore.

Sam takes good care of him, changes him into his soft pj pants and waits until Dean is well-settled in the bed before dragging the covers up. He leaves the lamp in the closet on and undresses, talking all the while, saying that they could go for a walk tomorrow, even take the Impala for a ride. They’ve been locked inside this cabin for almost a week. “Don't you want to see the sun, Dean?”

Dean makes an effort to smile at Sam. His brother’s face, which was all tired and worried, gets soft again. He ruffles Dean’s hair.

“I know you’re in there, I know you’re fighting hard to come back, and I’m ready to let you have all the time you need,” Sam murmurs. “Just… damn it, I miss you, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t want to cry, he doesn’t. He concentrates really hard to hold back his tears. 

“Go to sleep, Dean,” Sam says softly.

Then he settles on the floor in his sleeping bag, and Dean lets the tears fall as silently as he can.

::: :::

_Dean…_

Dean wakes up tangled in his sheets, his face covered in sweat. His head still hurts, even more than it did in the evening.

He heard something.

No, it was a dream.

_Dean…_

There, again. He knows this voice. Oh no. Sammy.

Sam snores on the floor, all twisted in his sleeping bag. Dean tries to say his name but he can’t. The headache starts pounding behind his eyes.

_Come on, Dean, come to me. You know you can’t escape. Deep down, you know it._

Something drags Dean out of bed. He doesn’t want to. Deep inside, he knows he should tell Sam, but all he can do is walk barefoot through the cabin in the dim light of the moon outside.

Meg is calling him. 

_She can’t get inside you,_ he thinks dully. _Sammy got you tattooed so no one would be able to possess you ever again._

 _Come on, Dean, you know you’re no use to anyone anymore,_ Meg whispers in his ear. _Don’t you want Sammy to be left alone? If you come to me, I won’t need him anymore._

 _It’s a lie,_ Dean thinks, but at the same time, he’s pushing the door of the cabin open.

_No it’s not. It’s not. You’re damaged, Dean. A burden to Sam and everybody else. The other Dean would hate you. You’re less than a child. Not the man your Dad wanted you to be._

_No, it’s not like that._ But maybe it is. Tears are running down Dean’s face now. He walks on the pine-needle covered ground through the trees. What use is he to anyone, really?

If Sammy could be left alone.

_That’s right, come to me. Sam will be free. That’s what you want, right? You want Sammy to be happy._

_I do. I’m stupid, my head is all wrong. I keep crying like a baby. Promise me._

_What?_ Meg's voice is like silk in his head. 

_Sammy will be free._

_He will._

_You can’t get inside me, you can’t, not anymore._ Dean tries to sound strong against her. 

_I won’t, Dean._

He doesn’t believe her, but somehow, he keeps on walking.

::: :::

“Dean!”

Sam fights to get out of his sleeping bag. He dreamed that Dean was following Meg along a path in the dark forest, deeper and deeper until Sam couldn’t see him anymore.

This is no ordinary dream.

 

Sam kneels and comes face-to-face with Dean’s bed. It's empty. 

Empty. 

“Dean!” Sam yells louder, running out of the room.

Dean is nowhere to be seen. Bobby jolts awake from the old couch while Ellen is already up from the portable bed she uses now. She’s pulling her jeans up, looking awake and ready. For anything.

“What the hell's going on?” Bobby grunts, grabbing his cap.

“Dean is gone,” Sam blurts in a panic. “I… something’s happened, I know it. Shit…”

“Hey, do you smell that?” Ellen asks.

“What? What, Ellen, I don’t…” Sam’s words die in his throat. The smell is very faint, but he can still catch it. Sulfur.

His first reaction is to run to the basementand grab the knife where it’s hidden in a warded box.

::: :::

He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking. His feet hurt a bit. He must have cut them on a rock. Doesn’t matter. 

There is a small clearing with huge rocks and twisted trees. Dean isn’t surprised to see Meg standing there –the same Meg that had ambushed them in the parking lot. 

_Get away from her, what are you waiting for,_ the Other Dean yells in his mind. 

Dean is scared. Just like the voice in his head, the fear seems far away, like it doesn’t really belong to him. 

“Good boy,” Meg says, smiling. “You know, Dean, sometimes, when a human is possessed by a demon, there is a connection that doesn’t go away, even if the demon has to leave.”

Dean falls on his knees. He doesn’t care what Meg says. He wants it to be over. He’s tired of suffering.

“I never realized it until I saw you two clowns in Virginia. How stupid of me. I broke you so good, Dean. And now, now we’ll wait for Sam to come and get you, what do you say? Your stupidly loyal Sammy won’t let anything happen to his beloved retarded brother.”

Dean doesn’t move. Somewhere far away, panic wants to rise. _Yell, run, fight. You can do it. Don’t let her take Sam._

She said he would be free.

_But you didn’t really believe it, did you?_

“Don’t move,” Meg tells him.

Dean doesn’t. He hears voices calling his name. Sammy is coming, just like Meg wanted him to. It was a deception all along. But Dean knew it, didn’t he? 

How good is it not to feel anything anymore.

::: :::

“Dean! Dean, come on, please, answer me!”

Sam runs between the trees, his flashlight drawing trembling circles in the dark. He sent Ellen and Bobby down the road. Maybe Dean went that way after all.

 _That’s not true and you know it._ Just like he knows he’s running in the right direction.

_Please don’t let me be too late, please, please._

The smell of sulfur is still floating in the air, getting stronger as Sam advances. Tree branches are whipping his face and arms. He didn’t tie his sneakers before leaving and has lost the left one somewhere on the way.

He’s holding the knife so hard his fingers have cramped around the handle. He knows he’s after Meg, just like he knows he won’t get another chance to save Dean. She may not be able to possess him, but as for the rest…

::: ::: 

“Yes that’s it. Lie down, just lie down, Dean.”

Dean does. It’s more like a fall. He’s on his back, looking at the trees pointing up toward a starry sky. Small rocks and branches are pushing against his back. He doesn’t care. It’s just so easy to lay down and drift off…

The other Dean, the one from before, he used to like watching stars at night. It isn’t any different now. Dean blinks lazily. Those were the times where the other Dean would allow himself to dream; when he was able to let down his guard as he faced the immensity of the sky, in front of which he was as innocent and helpless as the rest of humanity. The other Dean wouldn’t say it, of course, but sometimes he’d wished he could just stay there and lose himself until he was part of this elusive infinity.

The words are too complex for Dean to try to give them sense anymore, but he still gets it. In this moment, he’s Dean Winchester, whole, the one he was before _and_ the one he is now. No distinction.

Silence in his head. It would be easy, so easy, to get lost. Forever.

::: :::

Sam knows he’s getting close. The sulfur smell is stronger, but it isn’t the only thing. He just knows.

Dean will be lying on the ground, Meg hovering over him.

Dean will be lying on the…

Not dead, please not dead, please.

No, not dead.

Sam stops in his tracks. Everything is like he knew it would be. Meg is there, in the middle of the clearing, looking down at Dean’s body almost fondly.

Dean doesn’t move, but the rising of his chest is perfectly visible. For a second, all Sam wants is to burst out crying from relief. Then all he feels is anger. A deep, crimson, burning anger. 

“Sam, how nice of you to join us.”

Sam is already in motion, his right arm holding the knife rising as he runs toward Meg. _No second chance. You gotta stop this now._

He sees Meg’s eyes going black and her face contorting in an expression of pure hatred. He sees Dean turning his head toward him, eyes wide and hollow. He sees…

And then it’s like he’s hitting a wall of pain. It hurls him backward, hard, and for an atrocious second, his feet don’t even touch the ground anymore. The first part of his body to hit the tree behind him is his back, then his head. He falls on the ground, half sitting, half lying. The knife isn’t in his hand anymore. Everything gets unfocussed as the pain consumes him. Meg steps over Dean to walk straight up to him, determined and driven.

“No more tricks, Sam. I need you, and I’m going to have you, is that clear, you dirty son of a whore?”

::: :::

“…going to have you…”

Dean wants to go back to the stars and the emptiness. Doesn’t want to think, or to hear anything anymore…

“…son of a whore.”

“What do you want? Leave Dean alone, that’s enough, fuck, that’s enough!”

Sam’s voice. Dean can’t shut it down, can he? Sam sounds like he’s in pain.

Sam is in pain.

Because of Dean. It’s Dean’s fault if Sam is here in the forest, because he was stupid enough to listen to the voice and let it drag him here. Because he’s not strong enough. 

Dean feels the first spark of distress exploding in the pit of his stomach. Meg is getting closer to Sam, closer…

“…then I’m going to rip you apart, just like your dad…”

Something shines on the ground, not even a foot away from Dean. He turns on his stomach and slowly rises on his hands and knees.

That’s the knife, the one Bobby, Ellen, and Sam have been talking about. Dean knows, he listens, even if he doesn’t want to. 

_Take the knife,_ the other Dean says. 

_Bullshit! Stop thinking about me like I’m a stranger. You know we’re one, you_ know _it. And yes, it’s driving me mad, seeing what the fucking demon did to me; it’s making me so damn angry to think about the things she made me do and to know Sam is wasting his life taking care of me. But, you’re still me. Even if you're different, you’re still Dean Winchester, and you’re not going to let this demon spawn hurt your brother. It’s our… my job to protect him._

Dean stretches his arm and picks up the knife.

::: :::

It’s not working. STOP, Sam thinks with all his mind, all the strength he can gather. It’s not working. His damn powers have never been the obedient kind.

Meg’s power, on the other hand, seems way stronger. She’s immobilizing him, her hand getting closer and closer to his chest…

“Think I can’t rip this damn protection tattoo off your chest? Think I won’t enjoy tearing your flesh apart? And then you’re going to be mine and you’re going to do what you were meant to, from the moment He appeared in your fucking nursery and let his b-“

Meg’s mouth still forming words but no sound is getting out anymore. Her body is suddenly as tense as a violin’s string.

Dean’s behind her. Dean…

A golden light travels through Meg’s body. A blood flower blossoms on her chest. Her arms starts fumbling backward, trying to catch whatever is hurting her, but she’s already falling, the golden light flashing in her eyes, a quick succession of sparks. It’s peeking through the ever-growing bloodstain, making her body twitch and jerk.

She finally collapses on the ground, her human eyes open wide toward the sky, leaving Dean standing on shaking legs, holding the demon knife that's dripping with blood.

“Stooop!" he yells before falling on the ground next to her body. “Stop hurting my brother!”

He plants the knife right above her heart with a strength that shocks Sam, then pulls it out.

“You hurt me!” Dean pants, his face contorted with pain, fear, and anger. “You hurt me and you made me do bad things! You made me kill a little girl!”

Another stab and another one. Sam finally snaps out of his stupor and scrambles over to his brother, stopping his arm before he strikes again. He has to hold it tight. Dean is fighting, yelling still. The words aren’t recognizable anymore.

“Dean, it’s over!” Sam screams over him. “She’s dead, it’s over, alright? It’s over.”

Dean looks at Sam, his eyes bloodshot and wild. The knife drops from his hand and falls near Meg’s head.

Sam walks on his knees to bypass the body. As soon as he can reach him, he wraps his arm around Dean’s shoulder. Dean starts shaking. His clothes are dirty, he has a nasty scratch on his left cheek, but all in all, he doesn’t look too bad.

Most of all, the hollowness in his eyes is gone.

“It’s over,” Sam repeats more softly.

Dean’s lower lip starts shaking. A sob makes its way through his chest and gets out more like a moan than a cry. Big tears are pooling in his eyes.

“'M sorry, Sammy,” he stutters.

“Hey, nothing to be sorry for, you hear me?”

Sam takes Dean’s chin with his free hand and forces him to look at him. “You saved my life, Dean.”

Dean nods and wipes his nose with the sleep of his Henley. “’ 'S over”, he agrees, then shoves his head in the crook of Sam’s neck.

“Yeah,” Sam coos in a strangled voice. “Now, it’s over.”  
They stay like this until Ellen and Bobby arrive. Sam doesn’t even acknowledge them. He holds tight onto Dean just like Dean is holding onto him.  
 _You and me,_ Sam thinks, _the way it’s always been._

 

**Epilogue**

_One year later_

“I changed my mind.”

Dean is pacing back and forth in the living room. He’s wearing clean jeans and a new shirt, his hair is combed in his usual spiky do, and he smells good –a new aftershave he picked himself after smelling practically all the different bottles at the drugstore nearby. 

“No, you didn’t.”

“You…” Dean stops all of sudden and scratches the back of his head. “Can’t you come with me, Sammy?”

Sam smiles and put his computer next to him on the couch. “It’s a date, dude. You don’t bring your brother to a date.”

Dean nods, but doesn’t seem convinced. He bites his bottom s lip nervously. “What if… what if she thinks I’m…”

“Hey, no.” Sam stands up and grabs Dean’s shoulders. “I don’t want to hear that word. You’re not stupid, Dean. Besides, you know Skylar, you know she likes you.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Remember, Dean. Condoms in your back pocket, keep your cell phone on, and be nice.”

“Yes.”

“And what if she wants you to go home with her?”

Dean blushes red. It’s adorable. “I, huh… call you.”

“Right. What if she wants to come here with you?”

“'S okay. You’ll be in your room.”

“Yeah, leaving you guys some space. What about the restaurant?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “No alcohol. And I won’t forget to use my fork and spoon.”

“That’s my boy.”

Sam makes a gesture to ruffle Dean’s hair. He ducks away from it with a horrified look in his eyes. “Sammy, don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” Sam chuckles.

There is the rumbling noise of a car approaching. Dean’s face goes from pink to white in record time.

“She’s here.”

“Yeah, she’s here, dude. Where is your rose?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know where I left it, Sammy, where-“

“Calm down. Kitchen.”

“Right.” Dean snaps his fingers and all but runs to the kitchen. The doorbell rings right at that instant. Still smiling, Sam goes to the door. Hell, maybe he’s as nervous as Dean.

When Sam opens the door, Skylar Brooks is waiting on the other side. She’s a petite woman with long, curly black hair and big brown eyes. Her mother is Italian, if Sam remembers right. She’s cute –not mind-blowing, or blatantly sexy the way Dean preferred his women before his brain injury, but things have changed. 

Skylar is a trainee at the community center where Dean goes to work three mornings a week as a cook's helper. She’s studying to be a social worker. She’s twenty-two, shy and sweet, very kind. When Sam had first noticed that something was definitely going on between her and Dean, he had met with her in private. Maybe he should have minded his own business, but there was no way he would’ve let anyone take advantage of Dean. Never. 

He had asked Skylar what she was thinking regarding his brother. She’d looked confused. True, Dean has made a lot of progress – and he’s still improving- but he still needs help and suffers from the aftermath of his brain injury. He has speech difficulty, his judgement isn’t always right, and he’s barely started to learn to read and write again. Sometimes, he suffers from excruciating migraines or has panic attacks. He tires easily. 

“Why are you asking me this?” Skylar had asked curiously.

“You do know he got the job here through the rehabilitation center?”

“Yes.”

“He’s… “

How to tell Dean’s story in a few words, how to make someone understand everything he’s been through? Sam had talked about the accident, and the brain damage, and the after-effects. Skylar’s eyes had become even wider than they usually were.

“I didn’t know. I thought he was shy, but I’m shy too. He’s… he’s funny and, huh… cute. I like him.”

That’s when Sam had realized that _his_ perception of Dean was biased. Dean didn’t seem mentally and physically challenged to people who didn’t know him. He just seemed a little socially awkward, a little reserved. And maybe it was time for Sam to let him go. A little.

That doesn’t mean Sam hasn't supervised this blossoming romance between Dean and Skylar. She had come home with Dean a couple of times, and they had had dinner and watched movies. The last time, Sam had to answer a phone call and had left the both of them alone in the living room. When he’d come back, they were kissing, like two teenagers stealing a moment away from their chaperone.

And yes, it was time.

“Hey, Skylar, how’re you doing?”

“Good.” Skylar smiles brightly. There is a faint blush on her cheeks.

“You look very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“Hi, Skylar, I got a rose for you,” Dean cuts in, bumping shoulders with Sam and handling the flower to his date.

“Dean. Wow, that’s… very nice. I love roses.”

Dean’s smile couldn't be brighter. “You are beautiful.”

“Thank you. You look good too.”

Dean snorts, embarrassed, and casts a quick look at Sam.

“So, are you ready to go?” the young woman asks.

“Yeah, I’m hungry. Very hungry.”

“Me too.”

Dean hesitates a second, then grabs Skylar’s hand. Sam wishes them a nice time, standing in the doorway as they leave. 

Why does it hurt to see Dean slowly but surely getting back a life of his own?

_Because you’ve spent the last two years watching over him, doofus. Imagine how it must have been for Dean when you left for Stanford._

_Yes, in another life,_ Sam thinks, looking at Skylar’s electric car driving away.

Sam closes the door behind him and walks back slowly in the living room. There is a documentary about migration he wanted to watch. He settles on the couch and turns the TV on. Dean would have protested and asked for something more fun, like a movie, had he been there. 

Tonight is Sam’s and Sam’s alone, and, as it has been each time Dean's worked at the community center, he doesn’t know what to do with his free time.

_Hey, life has changed. For the better. Maybe it’s time for you to move on too._

Easier said than done. After Meg’s death, there had been other demons to kill, but she’d been their leader and any plans about Hell's Gate had been forgotten. Sam didn’t take part in any of those demon hunts. He left it to Bobby, Ellen, and Rufus. As for him, he took Dean back home.

There had been a lot of things to care for at the beginning, the most difficult being explaining to the house’s owner why he had left for a road trip with his brother without telling anyone. When Sam had first gotten back, the house had been for sale, everything inside cleaned out. He had convinced the owner to give him back the rental and had paid six months in advance.

Sam thinks maybe he’ll ask if there is any possibility that they could actually buy it. The neighbourhood is nice, the town is as well and, most of all, Dean feels like home here. Hell, Sam does too, whom is he kidding?

About a month after their return, Sam had contacted the hospital’s rehabilitation center and rambled about an emergency that had kept them away. Dean had changed after that night in Montana. Sam had known he could trust him not to talk about hunting and monsters, demons. Killing Meg hadn’t been a miraculous cure -Dean won’t ever be the man he had been before she had possessed him. Still, it’s like it had unlocked some blockage in Dean’s mind. He had started to progress quicker afterwards.

Maybe six months after they had moved back into their home, Sam had found Dean lying on the grass in their backyard one evening, hands crossed behind his head.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“Looking at the stars. I used to like it.”

“I know.”

“And it hasn’t changed,” Dean had added, sighing.

Sam had joined him and they had stayed together in a peaceful silence. 

“Sammy?” Dean had said after a while.

“Yeah?”

“I… I feel like… maybe I’m happy, kind of. 'S that okay?”

“Of course it is.”

Only Dean, the old one and the new, could question his right to his own happiness.

All in all, they’re doing good. Sam doesn’t work. He wants to be there for Dean. Honestly, they don’t need money. Sam has done well with this computer fraud thing. He sometimes feels bad about it. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get caught, but what if? How would Dean manage with his geek of a brother in jail?

_You know what, Sam? It probably wouldn’t be easy, but he would manage._

The documentary is halfway through, and Sam hasn't listened to a single word. 

He thinks about writing. Nothing real - he's more comfortable with fiction. Monsters and brave men and redemption. He would be a good romancer. Barely even needs his imagination at all. And maybe, maybe the hero of his book would be a man loyal and brave, ready to do anything to protect those he loves. That’s the kind of hero readers like, right? That’s the kind of hero Dean is. 

When his cell phone rings, Sam is startled, so deeply lost in his thoughts, letting his mind wander here and there.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice is a little breathless. “'M in the men’s bathroom.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. And I… Skylar asked if she could come in when she drives me home, maybe we can have a coffee.”

“That’s great, Dean.”

“I think we’re going to have sex,” Dean's voice drops to a serious, almost solemn tone.

“Dude, too much information,” Sam jokes.

“So you have to be in your room, okay? In your room, door closed.”

“ 'F course. You can trust me, man. Don’t forget to use a-“

“I know, I’m not a kid,” Dean replies. “Gotta go. Love ya, Sammy.”

“Love you too, Dean.”

Sam hangs up and smiles to himself. He better grab his computer and a good pair of earphones.

While he gathers everything and makes sure there is coffee for the lovebirds to drink –if they have any intention to drink coffee at all -Sam thinks again about that night outside, watching the stars.

Dean is happy. 

What about him? What about Sam?

“I am,” Sam answers to the empty house. “I’m happy.”

He’s talking to himself. Dean would make fun of him. It feels good just to imagine his brother’s smile.

Finding happiness, peace. Who would’ve guessed the form it would take. But Sam and Dean are and always will be Winchesters. Normal is whatever they decide it is, and then make it so. And that's how it should be.

 

Fin

 

 **A/N:** Since it’s an AU, I left some stuff from Canon unresolved. There’s a possibility that Bobby has learned about Sam having demon blood in him. Will he tell him one day? Maybe.

As for what’s supposed to happen to Sam and Dean for the years to come, in my mind, it still diverge from the canon and I think they’ll be left in peace. Hell’s gate is still closed, Lilith isn’t free and Dean doesn’t make a pact to save Sam’s life. Maybe the whole apocalypse can be completely averted, who knows?

In my head, Dean keeps improving, Sam may be published one day, they keep living together. As for the rest, it’s up to your imagination, guys.

I want to thank you all for reading this story and commenting, keeping me motivated. This story has been written more than three years ago, in French, and some pieces have been posted here as ficlets under the title: _final concussion verse._ I really think it’s time to let it go now, let those Sam and Dean live their lives. 

In the original story posted in French, I used Castiel as a plot device to put Dean back together at the end, just like he was before being possessed by Meg. I had a hard time deciding if I wanted to do the same thing when I wrote this new version. In the end, I decided that since I wanted this story to be as realistic as possible, I couldn’t just take the easy way out and solve all of Dean’s problems with magic or angel mojo. But I think I took the right decision, because even though Dean isn’t the man he used to be, he’s happy in his own way, I can guarantee it.

Thanks to disneymagics, my very dear friend, who worked so hard on this story with me. Thanks to the awesome firesign10 who stepped up to beta the last part so that my friend could have some well-deserved rest.

That’s all, folks!

::: :::


End file.
